


Get Out Alive

by Devils6Details



Category: Markiplier (YouTube RPF), Outlast (Video Games), Youtube RPF, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Dark & Mature Themes, Drama, F/M, Gen, Horror, Language, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-03-20 22:15:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 68,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3667203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devils6Details/pseuds/Devils6Details
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Outlast In-Game Reality] You and the one and only Markiplier are somehow brought to Mount Massive Asylum. Can the two of you survive the horrors and make it out alive? And, if you can. . . at what cost? [Warnings inside].</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Her Name is. . .

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, everyone! I just want to let you guys know that this story will eventually contain explicit language and violent content, as well as triggering topics [suicide, depression, post traumatic stress]. I'm going for as gritty and realistic as possible as far as being stuck in a video game can be, but I don't want anyone to get into this unprepared.
> 
> So. . . enjoy!

This whole thing starts with you being bored enough at work to wander onto Youtube.

Now, you get bored at work a lot, considering that the shifts are usually nine hours long and it's a small nutritional store shoved way out at the end of East Coast Nowhere. You have your fair share of customers in the summer, but during the winter months, you can go at least two hours without seeing another living person even drive by the parking lot sometimes.

So, you were bored, and going onto Youtube at the computer that must be ten years old near the cash register is a pretty desperate venture. . . especially when the monitor doesn't have built-in speakers. Or any speakers, period.

But there was honestly nothing else to do. Except cry, maybe. Or stare at the walls and think about how much you're wasting your life away at almost twenty-five years old, which wasn't exactly high on your list of priorities.

You found his channel by an accident. You were looking for game walk-throughs that weren't real heavy on dialogue. The Legend of Zelda has always been a good series to fall back on, either Majora's Mask or Ocarina of Time. You're also a pretty big Turok fan, and Seeds of Evil is probably one of your favorite games, ever.

ANYWAYS. You were browsing the links and clicking on other links and, suddenly, you were too far away from familiar territory and a little concerned with your new neighborhood. But also kind of interested, because you had found a bunch of horror walk-throughs for this game called Five Nights at Freddy's.

You have absolutely no idea what this game was about, but the screenshots and the short descriptions that people were writing on it made it look pretty cool. You're kind of a sucker for scary things, to be honest. You're addicted to No Sleep on reddit and you are always checking the Creepypasta Wikia for something new and twisted to try and unnerve you. Which, as you get older. . . is getting harder and harder to do. And that sucks.

But you take what you can get. If you can't play the horror games on your own, you shove a chair underneath the doorknob in your room, pull the curtains shut tight, and snap on your giant headphones for a few, hopefully uninterrupted hours alone with your laptop. It's never really the same, though. Hell -you were terrified going through F. E. A. R. 3 when you had the controller in your hands, but watching someone else play it? Made a huge difference in how you reacted to the jump scares.

Getting back on track, though. You did a quick search on this Five Nights game and was fairly impressed with what you read. Like the original style of gameplay that it offered, the whole stationary thing and just watching the security monitors? Very neat. And, while you tend to go for the no commentary walk-throughs because people are really, really annoying, you just clicked on the first link that they had. Remember? The work computer has no speakers, so it wouldn't matter.

And said first link happened to belong to this guy called Markiplier. All you saw was his head floating around the left-hand corner of the screen -some kid about your age with dark hair and glasses. You didn't pay much attention to him. Why would you have? You were trying to watch the game, which was ranking at about a -7 on your horror index because it was broad daylight in the store and you couldn't hear the sound cues.

So you stopped after the first video in disappointment. There weren't any walk-throughs for this game without commentary, which meant that you would have to generally cringe and suffer while listening to some idiot pretending to be funny if you wanted to check out the rest of the game. This guy -this Markiplier -his videos had the most views. Maybe that meant he was the most tolerable?

You ended up watching a few levels worth of Seeds of Evil for the last three hours of the day, but you hadn't forgotten about Five Nights. How bad could the commentary be? Maybe you should give it a chance.

No one was home when you pulled into the driveway, which was pretty lucky. No ma and no step-jerk meant no stupid and pointless interruptions. Yeah, yeah. You still live with your mom. You have some money saved, and you pay your own bills, but trying to afford an apartment? Being able to furnish it and then keep up with the monthly rent? No way. You can't do that without. . . without selling your car. Or your kidneys. Besides, staying here isn't so bad. Most of the time.

You really try not to think about it.

But you're getting distracted again. So. . . right. You finally got home, kicked off your boots, and soon found yourself barricaded in your room with a box full of blueberry Poptarts and a thirty-pound computer on your lap. And it took about two minutes of random surfing for you to realize that you had nothing better to do than return to Youtube.

You gave up. You went back and clicked onto the first Five Nights video again, the one made by that Markiplier guy, and. . . you couldn't do it. You gave the commentary a chance, really, but you just couldn't listen to it.

After one frustrating hour and about thirty failed attempts at finding a copy of the game that you could stand with the fucking commentary, you were -once again- scowling at the first link on the first results page. You didn't want to admit it, but Markiplier hadn't been as irritating as the rest of the population playing this stupid game. Swearing under your breath, you clicked on his first Five Nights video for the third damn time and cranked the volume.

The worst that could happen would be your ears eventually bleeding. You'd get over it.

When you finally started paying attention to him, though. . . well, that was probably the beginning of the end. You still don't know how it happened, but one video turned into three. And then seven. And then twenty. And then the whole weekend you had free was suddenly gone. Seriously, just. . . what the hell? Was that normal? Probably not.

Markiplier had to be one of the biggest dorks that you had ever had the opportunity to witness. You have no idea why you kept watching his play-throughs. Um, nothing that you're going to admit to, anyways. He was goofy with these distinct screams in reaction to jump scares and hit or miss. . . or miss, jokes. And. . . he had a really nice voice. And smile.

So, yeah. He was pretty much like every other kid on Youtube. Right? Maybe? You don't know. Probably not. He has this silly kind of charm, you guess. It took a while for you to get used to it, and you still can't quite pinpoint the moment where his off-beat comments stopped being mildly annoying and progressed into something. . . rather entertaining, but they did.

And, hey, it's six months later and the only thing that can put a stupid grin on your face after you come home from work is booting up one of his play-throughs. He might be a bit of a dork, but he is also a bit brilliant and his rambling monologues make you laugh. . . and you honestly don't even care anymore.

You need something in your life like this. You need something that can help you forget and keep you in better spirits and. . . fuck. You just need this, okay? You need to be able to listen to him and you don't have to come up with a reason why.

Because, if you did. . . it would be an incredibly embarrassing one.


	2. Mount Massive Asylum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And you thought that you were going to have a nice snow day off from work. . .

So. . . how about Outlast, huh? Ever heard of it? You must have -it's this absolutely ingenious first person horror game about a reporter going to investigate an insane asylum. Shit goes down and there is a lot of blood and a lot of pretty awesome -and pretty twisted- characters that try and kill you as you collect info for your story.

Personally, you've never played the game. You've always wanted to, but you just never got around to it. And then you found out Markiplier had posted a walk-through of it and its not-really sequel on his channel, and. . . with the events that follow. . . Yeah, you think that you might be taking a break from the whole horror thing in general. Like, for a few years. Or longer.

Or forever.

It's snowing out and your boss calls you this morning to say that you should stay home. The roads are really icy and there isn't anyone in town, anyways -so why bother opening? You earnestly agree with his decision, because when you lurch out of bed and groggily peel open your curtains. . . the entire world is white and blinding and you just want to dive back underneath your blankets and never surface.

Which is what you do. Only, you can't get back to sleep. You're laying there and frowning at the wall, listening to the wind and the trees and feeling generally more annoyed with each passing minute. But. . . then you start thinking: now would be a good time to finally watch that Outlast play through. You've been waiting for a decent chunk of the day where you can enjoy the entire thing. It might not be as popular as Five Nights at Freddy's 2, because it's been out for a while. . . but you heard that Markiplier loved the game and that it's one of his best plays.

How can you resist?

. . . exactly. You don't.

You're on your side with your laptop open three minutes later, warm beneath the covers with ear buds in. Honestly? You're pretty excited. You've stayed away from any and every spoiler on this game just so you can experience it first-hand through this Let's Play. And. . . and that's when things start getting a little weird. Or maybe a lot weird.

You click on his playlist with wide eyes. You're fully awake, and yet. . . as soon as Markiplier appears at the top of the screen with his usual introduction, this slow wave of dizziness washes over you. In seconds, you can barely keep your head up. And when the image on your computer flickers. . . your face slams into the keyboard and the world blows out like a candle.

Eventually, you wake up again, but you feel. . . sore, and groggy. Like you downed six or seven Five Hour Energies to pull an all-nighter, and then crashed without warning. It's not a great feeling. Blearily, you rub at your eyes and roll onto your back. Weirder still is that your blankets are digging into your skin like rough pavement.

Wait a minute. . .

You spread your hands over your face and squint through the gaps between your fingers. And. . . there are trees swaying above you. Big, haunted-looking trees with twisted branches and leaves painted gold and orange against the setting sun. Which is just, what? You fell asleep outside? That can't be right.

Dull pains shoot through your limbs as you struggle to sit up and, hmm.

Glancing around, you realize that you're in the middle of a small courtyard. A very quiet and an oddly empty courtyard, with one lone vehicle parked just outside of these towering metal gates to the south. And then, on your other side. . . well, you see these buildings, wide and brick-faced and generally normal for the sprawling mansion-type, but you also see another kid passed out in the grass about ten feet away. And that is strange.

All of this is very strange.

You crawl towards the unconscious kid, stray pebbles biting into your palms and catching along the knees in your pants. Yep, it definitely stings. So. . . you're probably not dreaming. These colors are too sharp and the air is too cool and something unpleasantly metallic coats the back of your throat. Everything just feels. . . real, which means that you must be awake. . . doesn't it?

"Hey." You give the kid a light shake. "Hey, buddy. Come on, don't be dead. Please?"

No response. You grip his shoulder and shake him again. "Come on, come on. . ." You mutter, brows furrowing. "I'm not going anywhere until you wake up." Because, being lost and alone in a bizarre place would suck, but at least you only have to worry about the being lost part.

Finally, the young man groans. He squints open one dark eye, and then the other, and now the two of you are just kind of staring at each other and. . . it's more than a little awkward. Rectangle frames sit askew on a rather familiar face, and he reaches out to fix them while you quickly sit back.

"Well, hello. I think?" He wrinkles his nose.

"Uh. . . yeah." You swallow. "Hi, there. You wouldn't happen to know anything about this, would you? Like. . . how we got here? Or where we are?"

Fuck. Maybe you are dreaming -because. . . that is Markiplier. With that mess of ruffled dark hair and the stubble on his chin and. . . hell, Mark Fischbach is actually sitting next to you and there is no possible way that this could ever happen.

Unless you are, in fact, dreaming. Because he lives in California. You live in [State Name]. It just wouldn't happen. Never in a million years. . . right? Maybe?

He hums under his breath as he looks around. "You know, I really don't. I remember turning on my computer, but not much else." He shakes his head, frowning. And then his eyes lock onto the maze of buildings in front of you for a long, long moment, before they widen almost comically behind his glasses.

"Tell me that isn't what I think it is." He says, a clear note of disbelief in his voice.

You raise an eyebrow. "It isn't what you think it is."

He snorts, an unwilling grin touching the corners of his lips. "Okay, no -that didn't help at all." He pauses, wipes his palms on the legs of his jeans. He actually seems nervous, and you don't know what to make of that.

"Are you. . . into video games, by any chance?" He eventually asks you.

Um, what? You don't really think that this is the time for a heart-to-heart. . .

"Should I be concerned about where this line of questioning is going?" You slowly manage to get to your feet. Your bones are stiff and aching and popping obnoxiously and, man. You're just feeling really uncomfortable with all of this. Even the Markiplier part, because you're still not sure on how any of this can be happening.

"I'm going to say, yes. You probably should be very concerned." He huffs. "Because that, all of those building over there?" He waves towards the line of connected brick mansions, and then fits his broad palm against your offered one so you can help him up.

"If I'm right, and I really, really hope that I'm not." He clears his throat. "But. . . if I am, we might sort of be standing outside Mount Massive Asylum."

Pause for dramatic effect.

You stare at him, considering the fact that you guys are the exact same height, and. . . that's it. You have no idea where Mount Massive Asylum is or why the very idea of it seems to rattle him, and what does this have to do with your playing video games?

"I'm sorry." You finally shrug. "But I have no idea what you're talking about."

The name does sound somewhat familiar, though. And just as Mark is about to open his mouth again, you cut him off without meaning to.

"Oh! Wait, maybe I do." You snap your fingers at him. "I had just started that play through you did of Outlast, you know? And you were reading the note thing before starting the game and. . . and. . ." You trail off with an incredibly awkward expression, ears flushing a brilliant red.

You probably could have gone about revealing that better.

But. . . he doesn't seem to mind. Or he doesn't even notice your sudden and obvious embarrassment as that big, toothy smile he is so well known for fills his entire face. Even his eyes crinkle up at the corners.

"You're a fan!" He looks delighted by the news. "Awesome, hey!" But then his mouth tips into a confused frown. "Hang on. . . you said that you had found my Outlast Let's Play? And that's the last thing you remember before waking up here?"

"Ah. . . shit." You mutter, scuffing your shoes into the grass. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what he means by that. "This is my fault somehow, isn't it?"

Of course it is. You get yourself and your favorite Youtuber tossed into a horror game that may or may not involve an insane asylum. Why are you not more surprised?

A sudden weight clamps down on your shoulder and you're able to resist your usual instinct to take a step back, to take a step away and draw in a steadying breath.

"Hey, come on. Whatever happened that landed us here. . . there is no way that it could be your fault." Mark says firmly, squeezing your shoulder for emphasis. His fingers are strong and radiate way too much heat through the thin material of your t-shirt.

"Unless. . . you know how to control time and space, or you can cross into other dimensions." He adds lightly. "Then I might be inclined to blame you a little bit."

You snort under your breath, but you also can't help the slight grin curling up one side of your mouth. "Nope. No time and space controlling abilities." You shrug, though you're still not convinced that you didn't do something to cause this. "Not lately, anyways. So, what? A coincidence?"

Mark finally drops his hand and you automatically shift backwards, trying to put some much needed space between the two of you. The burn of his palm lingers against your skin, and it's kind of uncomfortable in ways that you don't want to think about at the moment. Because, yeah. It's also kind of not uncomfortable, and you definitely don't want to think about that right now, either.

"Exactly! It was just a. . . a mildly freakish coincidence or whatever, and certainly not a reason to panic." He cheerfully agrees. "Waylon Park must still be around somewhere, because the car out there, the one beyond the gates? It's still here, too." Mark points to the vehicle to the south that you noticed earlier. "We don't have to go into Mount Massive at all. We'll take the car and figure out what to do from the road. Sound good?"

Well, it sounds better than exploring an insane asylum.

"Sure, why not?" You shrug again and cross your arms over your chest. "And then you can tell me all about these games from the relative safety of the car, because I don't think that I'm going to be finishing your play throughs of them in the near. . . or the distant future. Or possibly ever." You pause. "I haven't decided yet."

He laughs as the pair of you start walking towards the gates. "You've got yourself a deal, um. . . Wow. I can't believe that I forgot to ask what your name was." He says sheepishly.

"It's cool. There were sort of more pressing issues to deal with, first." You grin, elbowing him lightly in the arm. "[Name], though. My name is [Name]."

He smiles wide and nudges you back. "And yet, despite these odd and unfortunate circumstances. . . it's nice to meet you, [Name]."

"Likewise."

When you reach the vehicle, he climbs in behind the wheel and you take the passenger seat. It's a pretty nice car. Whoever owns it keeps the interior in impressive condition. While Mark fumbles around for the keys, you rifle through the glove box and find some papers registered to one Miles Upshur.

"So. . . who is this Upshur guy, again?" You ask, frowning down at the pages. "And I don't remember you mentioning a Waylon Park before I landed here, either."

"Oh. Miles Upshur is the protagonist of the game." Mark starts to explain. "He's some reporter guy who was sent classified info on this place from an anonymous source and. . . Hey!" He cuts himself off in a burst of excitement as a small key falls from the visor above his head and into his lap. "Heh. We are definitely in business now, Miss [Name]." He flashes you that brilliant grin again.

"Hold that train of thought while I. . ."

The key fits in the ignition, but when he turns it? Nothing happens. Nothing. No weak lights or a sputtering engine, or anything at all to give the impression that the vehicle isn't just. . . completely dead.

Awesome.

Mark turns to stare at you, smile gone and his expression flat. You stare back with an unpleasant sensation tightening along the base of your spine.

"You have got to be kidding me." He deadpans. And he tries the key again, and for a third time, and for a fourth. . . and then knocks his head hard enough against the wheel to set off the horn. A wordless moan of pure, undiluted frustration fills the car.

"Okay. . . we come up with a Plan B." You say, trying to sound more hopeful than your lifeless tone probably suggests as you jump back outside. There has got to be something that you guys can use around here to. . . fuck. You don't know. You truly have no idea.

"Does sobbing count?" A dispirited voice echoes behind you.

"Um, we can call that Plan C."

"All right, good. Plan C will be sobbing loudly and pathetically. I'm going to hold you to that." Mark says, as he makes his way to the front of the car. "Now, let's see what we have, here." He mutters, popping the hood.

Meanwhile, You've noticed the small guard station just a couple of yards behind you two. There should be a telephone in there, right? Or maybe a cell phone? God, you hope so. All you know about Outlast is that it is scary and bloody, and you really don't want to experience any of that first-hand.

Not if you can absolutely help it.

But, of course, the station is empty when you peer inside. And the door is clearly locked. "Hmm. I should be able to improvise." You mumble under your breath. "How about. . ? Oh! Perfect." There is a fist-sized rock almost buried in the dirt by a nearby plant. You grab it and hurl it at the station window with as much strength as you can muster.

Following the sound of shattering glass is a heavy thunk -which you can likely assume is Mark slamming into the hood of the car, because a string of curses abruptly explode from that direction.

"Sorry!" You call out, feeling a twinge of guilt. "It was entirely unavoidable."

". . . yeah, okay." He groans. "But, um. . . just so you know? A small warning next time wouldn't go unappreciated."

"Noted." You pause as you brush away some of the loose shards, just enough to reach your hand inside and flip the lock on the door. "Any luck, by the way?"

"Uh. . . not really." He admits. "Apparently, I'm not as good with cars as I was hoping. From what I can tell, though, the battery is shot to hell." He pokes his head around the vehicle as he closes the hood. "How about you? Anything?"

Well, there isn't a whole lot in the guard station. No cell phone, and someone physically cut the wire for the land-line on the desk. That doesn't exactly fill you with confidence. All of the computer monitors are dead, too.

"Hang on." You tell him, opening a small locker in the corner. It is going to be getting dark soon, so this sort of helps. . . you guess?

After another minute, you join him outside and hand over the heavy duty Mag-Lite that was hiding underneath a jacket. "Just this, and a few batteries." Which are safe in your pocket, in case you need them.

Mark lightly smacks the flashlight into an open palm, a considering wrinkle between his brows. "Hey, it's better than nothing." He says, trying to stay cheerful. Hell, at least one of the two of you can.

"I'm also thinking that we should try walking." He glances over his shoulder and looks towards the road.

As if on cue, you both watch as a soft breeze rustles through the tree canopy, creaking branches and sending a ghostly swirl of orange leaves across the empty expanse. Not ten seconds pass before a nervous chuckle slips past his lips.

"Heh, heh. . . ah." He rubs the back of his neck. "Ladies first?"

"Hey, I'd rather take the creepy walk than meet up with the crazies in the asylum, buddy. Any damn day of the week." You snort, giving him an encouraging pat on the back. "Come on, I'll protect you. Don't worry so much."

Not yet, anyways.

He barks out a surprised laugh, and you're trying to pretend that you're not beaming with ridiculous pride as you set off down the pavement. "Yeah, thanks." He grins. "It's been a really long time since I've played this game, you know. I'm probably going to need it. Even if we are just. . . walking down this deserted street in some town that I don't know where. There could be wild animals lurking in the shadows, like. . . bears. Or rabid possums or something."

Now, you're the one laughing. His goofy sense of humor is too contagious for you to resist -which is more than a little unfair. His smile widens as you shake your head, and damn all of his nice teeth and his nice. . . face.

"How about animatronic bears?" You smirk.

"What? No! No, no, no!" Mark very nearly stamps his foot as he shakes the Mag-Lite at you. "Do not even start with that, now. That is just. . . that is so not funny."

"It's a little funny."

"No, no. It really isn't."

You raise an eyebrow at him. He raises both of his back and tries to wiggle them. You guys stare at each other for at least twelve uninterrupted seconds, and then you're bursting into another fit of laughter so loud that is frightens off a flock of birds resting in one of the trees.

If you were to guess, you'd say that both of you walk for about an hour, and the first thirty minutes are actually. . . pretty great. He asks where you're from. You ask about Los Angeles. The two of you talk about your favorite bands and movies and geek out over the Mass Effect series, and you're in the middle of explaining why you always choose the Geth over the Quarians on Rannoch if you don't have enough karma to make peace. . . when you unconsciously shoot a look behind you.

And you stop. You stop talking, you stop moving. . . You think that your heart even stops beating for a minute, too, as all of the color drains from your face.

Mark is instantly on the alert, his own smile slipping with confusion. "What? What? Do I want to know. . ?" He follows your unblinking gaze, and. . .

"Oh. . . fuck." He says quietly.

"Yeah, that." You gulp.

Maybe you shouldn't be surprised that your walking amounted to exactly. . . nothing. You haven't gone anywhere. Yeah, it felt like time passed, but the sun is still stuck hovering over the horizon. Everything is still soft and glowing orange, and the sharp outline of Mount Massive Asylum is still looming behind you -the bricks a brilliant red against the sky. Like. . . like the entire set of buildings is on fire.

In other words? You guys might be royally screwed.


	3. Fun and Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Into the asylum, you go. . .

You try and avoid the inevitable for as long as possible. The two of you sit outside on the front steps of the asylum for a while, enjoying the last of the sunshine, breathing in the fresh air. Mark tells you everything that he can remember about his Outlast play-through and the one that he did for its tie-in game called Whistleblower, but. . . you don't really think that either of you are prepared to do. . .  
  
Well, whatever it is that you're supposed to do. Survive through the game as if you guys were playing as Miles Upshur? Which, according to Mark, didn't exactly turn out that great for the reporter guy in the end. Sure, Waylon Park lived. . . but your being here will probably change things for everyone, right?  
  
And likely not for the better, you're guessing.  
  
After your various theories debate eventually slows down, an anxious silence settles in the cracks between you two. Mark sighs, and his bare arm brushes yours as he wearily climbs to his feet.  
  
"Come on, [Name]. We should. . . you know." His dark eyes are glinting with determination, his mouth a thin line. He offers out his hand and you take it without hesitation.  
  
"Go in and try not to die?" You suggest blankly.  
  
"Exactly. No, wait a minute." He shakes his head, a wry smile curling the side of his lips. "Maybe a little less with the gloom-and-doom and a little more positive reinforcement, okay? Like. . . we'll go in, do what we have to, and stay alive. I know this game, I know the enemies. . . We can do this."  
  
He sounds very convincing, even if he doesn't believe his own words. You appreciate the fact that he's trying, though. One of you has to keep on the lighter side of things. . .  
  
"I know. You're right. I'm. . . I'm sorry." You mumble an awkward apology.  
  
Mark gives your hand a reassuring squeeze. "Hey, now. You don't need to apologize. I know, okay?" He says, a little softer when he finally lets go.  
  
You lift your chin and look at him, his warm gaze intent on yours but a lingering tightness in his posture. His not quite confident expression and the anxious shifting from foot to foot.  
  
"God knows that I'm scared, too." He admits. "I'm terrified out of my fucking mind, actually. But. . ."  
  
"But." You take a deep breath, smiling crookedly. "We can do this."  
  
He hefts the Mag-Lite over his shoulder and grins back. You don't know how this happened, or why it had to happen to the two of you, but. . . you've gotta say, you don't think that you'd want to be stuck in this game with anyone else. Besides. . . how bad can it really be in there? At least, with both of you. . .  
  
You go up to the imposing front doors and try them, but no luck. It's almost fully dark out, now. The sky looks like a swollen purple bruise dotted with tiny pinpricks of white. They aren't very bright, the stars. And they seem so cold, so far away.  
  
"Locked." You sigh. "Is there another way inside?"  
  
Mark glances to the right, past the armored vehicles that also yielded nothing useful or important, and then glances to the left. "Oh, yeah. Um. . . huh. I think there's a gate that we can go underneath somewhere over here, if I remember correctly. . ."  
  
He clicks on the flashlight, starts walking, and frowns at you. "You said that you have extra batteries for this thing, right?"  
  
You nod and pat one of your pockets. "Only three, and it takes two. Why? We should be all set, shouldn't we?"  
  
"I don't know. I mean, I hope so." He quickly adds, when he notices your suddenly pale expression. "I was just thinking. . . We don't have a camera like Miles or Waylon did, but we do have this handy-dandy flashlight. During the game, one of the major points was making sure that you had enough batteries to keep your camera powered."  
  
Oh, that's. . . nice. You don't really like where this is going, and he looks about as thrilled with this revelation as you do.  
  
"Okay." You swallow. "We  try and find more batteries, then."  
  
"Yeah, that might be a good idea."  
  
You guys approach one of the smaller metal gates side-by-side, and the silence between you returns. Mark directs the intense beam of the Mag-Lite towards the pavement, but his eyes keep wandering to the rows of dirty, barred windows glaring down at you.  
  
You keep looking over your shoulder. It just. . . it feels like something is watching you, and the back of your neck won't stop twitching. Something probably is watching you, actually. You're not exactly interested in finding out what, either.  
  
"Ah-ha. Here it is." Mark waves the light at a gate indistinct from any of the others. . . except for the bottom left corner, where it seems to be missing a decent chunk of the metal.  
  
You crawl under first, and then take the light from him so he can follow. Without a word, you give the Mag-Lite back after he straightens up, hopefully taken as a gesture of trust and not. . . like you're sort of forcing him into the lead role. Which you're not, really. Or you are trying not to. But. . . you are pretty much placing your life in his hands through all of this. He's the one with the experience, not you.  
  
You'd hate to think of what would have happened if you had  been alone. . .  
  
"You aren't afraid of heights, are you?" He wonders, pointing the beam at what appears to be some nearby construction scaffolding. The platforms are attached to the side of one of the buildings, with rickety ladders climbing up, up, and up, to a solitary open window spilling out a sickly yellowish light.  
  
"No, but I'll certainly be giving the matter serious thought after this." You tell him.  
  
He chuckles quietly under his breath, and a spark of warmth steals away a fraction of the icy panic that had been creeping through your veins. Okay, okay, this is good. If you can just. . . inject a bit of humor into your situation every now and again. . . If you can get him to smile even a little sometimes. . . then you won't just be entirely dead weight on your murderous adventure.  
  
. . . shit. Never mind.  
  
The climb is very slow going and, despite being okay with heights, the thin wooden planks and swaying metal beams that you are forced to walk across has your heart lodged against your windpipe. Just as the two of you reach the window, something stained and fluttering with the breeze catches your attention.  
  
Mark has one leg over the sill when you automatically grab his arm. "What? What is it?" He turns too quickly and almost loses his balance.  
  
Thankfully, sixteen years worth of video game playing has sharpened your reflexes into something to be proud of -because you're able to steady him without even thinking about it as you lash out towards the paper about to fly away.  
  
His free hand scrabbles at his heart as he sucks in a breath. "Christ. . ." He huffs, leaning back against the side of the pane. "I thought that you were going to fall or something!"  
  
"Oh, no. . . I'm sorry." A prickle of guilt stabs through your chest. "I just didn't want to miss this. . . whatever it is." You show him the worn scrap of paper and he frowns. "It was taped right to the building, so. . . maybe some helpful tips and tricks?"  
  
He leans in close to you and shines the Mag-Lite onto the rushed black print. You try not to think about his arm pressing heavily into yours as you bend your heads together.  
  
"I'm gonna go with. . . no." He eventually says. "This isn't helpful at all. And is that blood?" He jabs his pinkie finger at a smear of something dark and not quite reddish across the top. "That looks like blood."  
  
You'd answer him, but you're still a bit distracted by what the note says. And not in a good way.  
  
_Welcome, Guests!_   It begins. _You have been selected to participate in a new survey that has been designed to push you to your very limits. If you and your partner can survive through seven nights at this very fine establishment, great for you. You probably won't die a horrible and gruesome death. If not, well. . . you should assume that we will  have all sorts of nice things in store for you!_  
         _Oh, you might even come across a few of our other participants during your stay. Keep in mind, though: only one pair can come out as the victors in this survey, so make sure to eliminate all of the competition along the way._  
     _Good luck, and, more importantly, remember to have fun!_  
  
"Fuck." You manage to choke out. Your entire body has gone numb with cold. ". . . what the hell is this?"  
  
"Honestly? Well, I think whoever. . . or whatever is responsible for bringing us here, is trying to fuck with us." Mark carefully takes the note, and then tears it into pieces. "We can't let them screw with our heads, [Name]. Which, I know, is going to be much easier said than done. . ." He blows out a heavy breath, dark eyes almost pleading with you.  
  
He is literally putting all of his energy into staying calm right now. So. . . isn't it only fair that you do the same?  
  
"We still have to try, though." You finish, attempting a weak smile. You're sure that it comes out as a grimace, or something equally pained, but you think that he appreciates it, anyways.  
  
He climbs through the window and you're right on his heels. You guys land in what appears to be a lounge room with some overturned furniture, seconds before the single bulb above your heads burns out with a pop of sparks. You can feel Mark flinch beside you as he immediately moves the Mag-Lite through the gloom.  
  
And it doesn't hit you all at once, like you would think. You adjust little by little to the prickly, oppressive silence. And then the blanket of shadows, with some pockets that are so dark, they seem to swallow up the flashlight beam like a black hole.  
  
And the smell. At first, it isn't so bad. Stale, and musty, you guess. Like a basement that hasn't been aired out in thirty years. But as you take a few more steps in, it starts to tickle at the back of your throat: something. . . thick, and sour-sweet underneath the layers of dust. Garbage left to roast out in the hot sunshine. Something rotten. Something dead.  
  
There are also dried blood puddles. . . everywhere.  
  
"Christ." Mark mutters. "This game was intense enough through a damn screen, but seeing all of this right in front of me. . ." He exhales a shaky breath. "I guess that I'm still waiting to wake up, you know?"  
  
Yeah, you know. You definitely know.  
  
"Well. . . it could always be worse, buddy." You attempt to reassure him, taking the plunge and walking deeper into the room. "I mean, we could have gotten stuck in Five Nights at Freddy's."  
  
He chokes on a laugh somewhere behind you. "Fucking hell. . . as much as I hate those creepy-ass animatronics, I think that I'd almost prefer sitting in that security room to this. I'd have you to watch my back with the monitors and the doors, and. . . Five Nights really isn't as violent or as. . . as hands on as this game is. All you have to do is sit there at your nice desk with your friendly. . . homicidal bunnies and chickens. . ."  
  
"And not have to worry about wading through pools of viscera or running from fuzzy black clouds of concentrated evil?" You add.  
  
". . . you have such a way with words, [Name]. Did you know that?" He sighs dramatically. "I'm practically swooning over here."  
  
Oh, dear. You pretend that your heart doesn't flip-flop like you've just missed a few stairs at that as you near a closed door. It's a bit easier to see over here. You think there is a hallway beyond the warped frame. At least, there is some kind of pale, watery light filtering in through the cracks. . .  
  
"I'm pretty sure that it's the stench of blood and decay in here making you swoon, not my vastly impressive language skills. And I also believe this door is unlocked." You wave him over and try not to think about what might be waiting for the pair of you on the other side.  
  
Mark clicks off the Mag-Lite as you push the door open. You look left. He looks right. And then you both look at each other.  
  
"Good?" You whisper.  
  
"We're good." He whispers back.  
  
Likely because one side is blocked by a gated metal door, and the other by a broken mess of shelves and filing cabinets. Which just leaves you guys wandering through the empty doorway in front of you. It leads into another living room-type area. . . from what you can see. Wooden chairs and more book shelves and tall windows covered with moth-eaten curtains. The two of you poke around for a few minutes and find nothing of interest, and then. . . someone, or something, lets out this terrible, garbled scream.  
  
You flinch as the vicious noise tears through your head. Your hands go to protect your ears, and you don't even realize that you've dropped to a knee in an unconscious gesture to hide from. . . whatever the hell is making the horrible sound.  
  
It cuts out after a few seconds, but you don't move until you feel a broad palm pressing into one of your shoulder blades. And then you flinch again and nearly fall over, your heart in your throat, fists raised in defense.  
  
"Are you okay?" Mark frowns. He looks pale, and worried. "It's just me, [Name]."  
  
You struggle to your feet and are, quite frankly, a little too shaken up to be embarrassed by your reaction. "You heard that, right?" You glance nervously towards the other open door, before your gaze catches on the television next to the two of you. "Please, tell me you heard that."  
  
The small flat screen is set into the wall and crackling out a stream of low-grade static, and. . . Wait, was it doing that earlier?  
  
"The screaming thing? Or whatever it was?" He rubs an anxious hand through his hair. "Yeah. I remember thinking that it was the television the first time, too. It didn't even sound human."  
  
You have to agree with that. Though you're not happy about it.  
  
You leave through the second doorway and your only option is to turn left down the hall. Loose, stained papers are scattered across the floors,  but Mark doesn't pay them any mind. You're not really interested in reading through anything that isn't vital to your survival, so you ignore them and keep close to his right side. He approaches another bent filing cabinet not quite obstructing your path and attempts to squeeze by, making an exaggerated face as he does.  
  
"How Miles Upshur makes this look so easy, I'll never know." He grunts.  
  
"Do you think that we'll see him in here?" You wonder, following along behind. It is a pretty tight, uncomfortable fit. "Or that Waylon Park?"  
  
"I don't know. Since both games kind of overlap, I think that we've landed right smack in the middle of them." Mark shrugs, peering around a corner into what must be an office room. "If Waylon Park is on his way out of here, well. . . let's hope that we don't run into Miles. He's probably already possessed by the Walrider."  
  
"Oh, right. That thing." You pause. "Good times."  
  
You guys search briefly through the office. Mark pulls open the desk drawers and exclaims in triumph at finding two more batteries. You give him a high-five and he practically beams at you. Of course, that bright smile doesn't help the knots twisting inside the pit of your stomach whatsoever -but you still end up grinning like an idiot in response, anyways.  
  
You awkwardly clear your throat and force yourself to look away. There is also a computer sitting on the desk, so you nudge the mouse with your arm just for something else to do. It likely doesn't work, because nothing in this place works. . .  
  
And it wakes up. The screen actually wakes up, and you're kind of floored. There isn't any internet service, of course, but there is a single document open on the desktop. You skim through it quickly, and. . . it's not good. It's really, really not good.  
  
"Mark?" You tug on his sleeve without thinking, your voice blank, icy rows of goosebumps raising all over your flesh. "We might have a problem."  
  
"Hmm?" He turns back around and squints at the computer. "What's up?"  
  
You wordlessly point to the document. There isn't much typed, but the few lines that are there are. . . sort of horrifying.  
  
_Whoever you guys are, I can only assume that you woke up in Mount Massive Asylum like we did. My name is Ryan. I'm twenty-four years old. My partner is Sara, and she is twenty. We were brought here under strange and confusing circumstances, too, and by the time that you find this. . . we will probably be dead._  
         _All I can offer you now is some advice: don't trust the survey notes. Collect as many batteries as you can carry -you'll fucking need them. Don't let them dig into your head. Protect your partner at all costs. And, you have to find your way out by the last night, the seventh night, or you'll be stuck here. You don't want to know what happens after, trust me._  
     _Good fucking luck, guys. And, when you wake up? You better pray that you remember everything._  
  
Mark is silent after he finishes. He exhales a rough breath, his fingers dragging back over his hair.  
  
You stare at him, or maybe through him, trying to digest all of this. . . insanity. You don't even realize that you're still clutching onto his sleeve until your knuckles start to tense up and hurt from the strength of your grip.  
  
". . . guess the paper we found outside was a survey note." He finally says. "But the rest of this. . . this is incredibly fucked up. How many people are these psychos kidnapping? And, for what? What's the point? Pushing us to our limits?  Are they fucking serious?" Anger glints like a cold steel band underneath his expression.  
  
You manage to untangle your sweaty fingers from his shirt and are very grateful that he doesn't say anything about it. "Yeah, I know. I know, this is totally messed up, but we can't. . . we can't waste energy getting mad at them, whoever the hell they are." You try and rationalize.  
  
Because you literally can't do anything else. You guys have a bunch of fucking problems, sure, but. . . you can't think about them. You can't think about anything other than him and yourself and getting you both home alive. It might sound selfish, but that's what you care about. Not these other kids.  
  
"Look, we're probably never going to learn the hows and the whys of this shit, right?" You swallow. "So we take their advice and keep going. If we find them in here, okay -we try and give them a hand. Otherwise. . ."  
  
Mark frowns at you, but eventually bows his head in something of a nod. His face looks ashen in the low, washed-out lights, and his frustration quickly drains into something tired. . . and something resigned, as he draws in another tremulous breath.  
  
"I know. That note gave us some decent tips and everything. . ." He swings the Mag-Lite like he wants to smash it through the computer screen. It comes close, twice, but he pulls back at the last second with a scowl. ". . . this still just fucking sucks."  
  
"No question there."  
  
He waits a beat before following you back to the open doorway, and then: "Do you think they're dead?" He asks quietly.  
  
You bite your lip and avert your gaze from his. It's too dark and too intense. . . and just too much. Right now, it's way too much. "I hope not, but. . . yeah." You mumble. "I think they are."  
  
He nods again, but doesn't say anything else. The two of you walk out into the hall side-by-side, his arm casually bumping into yours as you go. You don't pull away. You think. . . you think that you both need this. Touch. Connection. Reassurance.  
  
You're not alone in this, and neither is he. And it's going to stay that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Thanks a bunch for all of the kudos so far, guys! I'm glad everyone is enjoying this =)


	4. Little Piggy, Go Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are corpses. And it's not like the movies. . .

"Are you claustrophobic?"  
  
"Never really thought about it, but. . . I hope not."  
  
"Me neither -or, me too? Ah, whatever. We're going to have to get used to doing things like this, so. . . Here. Guard this with your life." Mark tells you, his low voice dropping even more dramatically in pitch as he offers out the flashlight. "I will bravely venture into the dark and terrifying vent, first. Watch my back, and. . . make sure nothing bites off my ankles in the process, would you please?"  
  
You snort and give him a two-fingered salute, holding the Mag-Lite close to your heart. "Oh, Captain, my Captain."  
  
"Hey, that was a great movie!" He protests, probably louder than he meant to. The metal of the vent sort of magnifies his yelp as he scrambles to climb up. ". . . shit. Sorry, I'll be quiet, now."  
  
Believe it or not, but things really haven't been. . . well, let's just say that you're still waiting for the other shoe to drop. And then land right on your heads. Not that you've gone anywhere important. The other doors around the office where the two of you found the typed document and the batteries were locked, and neither of you were too big on breaking them down and exploring.  
  
Mark says that the path through the asylum was fairly uncomplicated in the games, anyways. If the doors are locked, it means check somewhere else. Like between the walls, or, in this case: an open ceiling vent.  
  
So, here you are in what must be a break room, where there is a puddle of red-bright blood still wet and shining on the tile floor. It soaked through the low ceiling and is drip, drip, dripping down next to the mangled grate that leads to. . . who knows? Somewhere out of the administration block, maybe? Or. . .  
  
"[Name]?"  
  
Your chin abruptly jerks up, and you glimpse a waving hand and small rectangles of light where his glasses are winking from the darkness above. "I'll take the Mag." He says. "And it's going to be pretty slow-going in here, just to let you know. Video games always make this shit seem simple and, guess what?"  
  
"It's not?" You say dryly, passing up the flashlight.  
  
". . . not even a little bit." Mark grumbles. "Hell, I'm a strong guy, but I'm not Superman. Which might come as a shock, but it's sadly true."  
  
You grip the edges of the vent and holy shit, he was not kidding. You are going to have some amazing upper body strength after this. "You could have fooled me, buddy." You grunt, kicking out your legs in an attempt to get some leverage. "About the Superman thing, at least. God-dammit. . ."  
  
"Aw, now you're just trying to make me blush." There is a _clink_ of metal on metal, him setting down the Mag-Lite, you're guessing, and then his hands are on yours and gradually pulling you up.  
  
It seems to take a few painful hours before you manage to claw the rest of the way up, yourself -but Mark doesn't let go of you the entire time. You're too grateful for his help to be embarrassed. . . and then you _are_ embarrassed, because there is no room in this stupid vent to move right and you guys end up awkwardly smashed against the ceiling with about a foot of space between your flushed faces.  
  
"Hi." You whisper stupidly, cursing the day that you were ever born.  
  
"Hello, there." He whispers back with a grin. "Cozy, huh?"  
  
"It's in my top ten favorite vacation spots." You mutter, attempting to slink back a foot or three. . . and ultimately banging your elbow into the wall. Which hurts. A lot.  
  
Mark chuckles under his breath and shakes his head. "Come on, Commander Shepard. It's this way." He picks up the Mag-Lite and carefully turns around.  
  
Thankfully so, considering that you must be red enough by now to light this entire vent. "Commander Shepard? I'm taking that as a compliment." You keep your voice low and your chin even lower as you crawl after him. "You can be Garrus, then." God, you have no idea why you keep talking. "Because. . ."  
  
". . . because there is no Shepard without Vakarian." You two whisper in unison, and you are still so very, very glad that he can't see your face, because you have never worn a grin so wide that it hurt before.  
  
And also like a complete idiot. Mass Effect references. . . really? Why does that make you so happy?  
  
The vent is only a few yards in length before it drops out again. At least there is a fair amount of light ahead, too. Mark had to shut the flashlight off because it was already starting to flicker, which is probably the first of many bad signs to come, since you've barely used the stupid thing.  
  
Well. . . the less you use it, the better. Flashlights give away your hiding positions in video games, anyways.  
  
Both of you climb down from the open grate with much less difficulty and land in an oddly lit hall, where most of the wall in front of you is made up of these tall, frosted windows. Guess that they overlook the lobby? From what you can tell, anyways. You glance down but quickly back away as Mark tries another door. You never know who else might be watching you, and the longer you guys can go with avoiding detection. . .  
  
You step up behind him when he peers through the gap between the frames, squinting over his shoulder into the murky darkness. The smell that drifts out is just. . . fucking awful. It's a cloying, rotten stench so thick that it makes you dizzy. Breathing through your mouth barely helps. Man, even your eyes are beginning to water. . .  
  
Christ -you wonder what will be waiting in there, huh?  
  
"Ugh." Mark grimaces. He covers his nose and aims the spluttering Mag-Lite across dozens of strewn books and busted shelves. "I think that we're going to need some batteries soon." He says, pushing the door open all the way.  
  
And something drops from the ceiling before you even have a moment to respond. But, again with the super-gaming reflexes, because he is jumping about a foot in the air and crashing back into you with a yelp. You were already off the ground by the time that he jabs you in the stomach with an elbow, and how the hell the pair of you still manage to stay upright is totally beyond you.  
  
"Oof -!" You wheeze, an arm wrapping around your gut -and an image of a mutilated corpse with no fucking head burned across your retinas.  
  
"Oh, shit. Are you okay?" Mark latches onto your arm with a vice-like grip, his eyes blown huge and black behind his glasses . "I didn't even. . . fucking dead body, falling from the ceiling. . ." He shakes his head, trying to catch his breath. "I'm sorry, [Name]. It's been so long since I've played this that I've. . . I've forgotten about these smaller jump scares."  
  
"Uh, yeah. It's okay. I'm okay." You wince, already feeling the aching soreness of a vicious bruise beginning to form. ". . . just a ruptured pancreas, probably. Nothing important or anything. Besides, I'm not expecting you to remember everything." You breathe in and out long and slow. "Only enough to get us. . . not killed, is fine with me."  
  
He smiles weakly, but the expression is quick to vanish. You scoop out two batteries from your pocket and hold out your hand, the other still resting against your chest. Maybe his palm lingers over yours. Maybe you're just a little desperate for human contact. He switches the dead batteries and you lean closer to him unthinkingly as you venture into that. . . corpse room.  
  
And there is no shortage of bodies, no sir. Not counting the one that nearly crushed you two, a second figure -also missing its head- is still hanging upside-down in front of a dirty, barred window. A dark pool glints underneath its stump of a neck, and a. . . a thick, pulpy mess of entrails is dripping from a gaping slit in its chest.  
  
"Awesome." Mark croaks. "Yep, this is great."  
  
"And. . . it's about to get even better?" You predict.  
  
"Oh, you know it."  
  
You round the corner and he shines the Mag-Light towards another dark shape - one stuck through with a long, rusted pipe by the next window. You're expecting a third dead body, but. . . it's not. It's so much worse, because this one is still alive, and he looks like he must be about your age. Short red hair, drooping eyes, and boyish features pinched with exhausted agony.  
  
You freeze. On your right, you feel Mark flinch just seconds later, and you both stare up in mute horror as the kid struggles to stay awake.  
  
". . . they killed us." He gasps out. "The Variants -they got out, and Sara. . ." A thin mixture of blood and tears drips down his face, down his shredded clothes, and _plinks_   into the blackish puddle underneath his feet. ". . . they caught Sara. Stole her from me." He whispers, coughing and choking and spraying crimson across his lips.  
  
"You can't fight them. You. . . can only hide. Get to the. . . security room, and don't let them. . ." A violent, heaving shudder wracks his frame, but his bloodshot eyes are clearing and focusing on Mark with an unsettling desperation in their depths.  
  
"Don't let them. . . take her from you, too." He breathes, glancing at you. "And get the fuck out of here."  
  
His body twitches one last time on the pipe, and then. . . it doesn't move anymore. His gaze rolls up, and everything is terribly, terribly silent. You don't say anything. You can't, really. You just can't. And you don't think that Mark can, either. What the fuck are you supposed to say to something like this, anyways?  
  
God, you can't even imagine what must have happened to Sara. . .  
  
"Ryan. . . shit. I'm so. . . I am so, so sorry." Mark mutters. He lowers his gaze, and then quietly swears again as he looks over at you. "I'm pretty sure that one of those asshole Variants will be waiting for us out there." His voice is heavy with emotion, dragging like weights down your spine when he points to the door behind you two. "I forget where, exactly, but he ambushed Miles in the first game around here. . . somewhere."  
  
You are not going to end up like Ryan and Sara. You are not going to end up like Ryan and Sara. You repeat this over and over in your head until you feel sick, and not just in your stomach. It might not make a whole lot of sense, but. . . fuck -this is making your brain feel sick, as well. You don't know how else to describe it. You just feel sick.  
  
"Okay." You nod. "Okay, we can totally handle this." You wring your hands together and turn away from the poor, helpless kid impaled through his intestines. "Um, which Variant? It's not -?"  
  
"No, no. It's not the Walrider." Mark side-steps more blood and makes his way towards the closed door. "It's the big guy, the one who chases you through most of this game. Um. . . what was his name? Chris, I think. Chris Walker."  
  
He hesitates when you reach the doorway, though, and you suddenly find yourself pinned underneath his dark stare. It's. . . unexpected, and a little too intense for your liking. In fact, you feel an awkward flush of heat sweep up your neck and across your ears at the attention, but you don't look away.  
  
"What?" You frown, shifting from foot to foot.  
  
He bends his head next to yours and your pulse stutters in your veins. ". . . just, stay close, okay?" He whispers, the words brushing warmly against your face. "We don't want to get split up in here -no matter what."  
  
"No matter what." You echo, and you hope that your expression is braver than your faint tone suggests.  
  
A bracing hand presses into your lower back, nails briefly digging through your shirt as you step back out into the yellowish glowing hall. You still don't see anything through the frosted windows, but you don't really spend a lot of time staring, either. Your mind is still struggling to catch up with the fact that. . . well, that the previous moment may have been the most intimate position that you have ever willingly been in with someone.  
  
And that realization is both a little pathetic. . . and a little humiliating. Not to mention, it isn't exactly something that you should be thinking about right now. You have to watch out for Variants, and. . . you know -try not to die.  
  
You guys creep around a few corners and try to keep your heads down. Mark motions to a pocket of debris cluttering the the brightest part of the hallway, where a small gap between shelves might just be wide enough for you to slip through.  
  
"You go first, and I'll. . ."  
  
But he doesn't even get to finish his sentence, because this utterly massive wall of scarred, twisted flesh bursts into view with an explosion of splintering wood, and footsteps nearly heavy enough to shake the entire fucking floor.  
  
"Little pig, little pig." A throaty voice growls, and you barely have time to react before a giant fist is grabbing Mark by the neck.  
  
For a moment, time slows to a broken crawl. You feel panic and adrenaline coursing hot and cold through your limbs as Mark chokes out a noise, his eyes screaming for you to run. But you don't, and there is no way that you're going to leave him here. You have no idea what possesses you in that instance, and yet. . . when who can only be that Chris Goddamn Walker lifts your friend off of the ground, and the Mag-Lite drops from his hands. . .  
  
You scoop the thing up and just launch yourself at the monster, your heart thundering and your ears screaming and concentrated lightning sparking from your fingertips, and then you are swinging that flashlight like a fucking sledgehammer at his misshapen skull.  
  
And. . . you wish you could say that it worked. Or that it did something -anything at all to help your predicament. It did not. And there is a horrible shriek of breaking glass and a rush of stale air as Mark is tossed through one of the hall windows.  
  
As soon as he drops out of sight. . . you don't know. You can't really explain what happens next, because your line of sight fogs over with this blurry film of burning red and tears. All you do know. . . is that you're screaming his name when something clamps around your own throat, and then the world is tipping end over end and you're falling.  
  
_Little pig, little pig_. . .  
  
When you finally land, you're still screaming. A thick, constricting fire is wrapped across your legs and covering your face, and you're trying to rip it off with flailing, trembling hands as you cry out for Mark. God, please -please let him be okay -!  
  
It filters through your consciousness in hazy increments: the mess of tangled blankets, the walls strewn with band and gaming posters, the laptop resting patiently beside you, paused on a rather familiar image. . .  
  
You flinch so violently that you topple from your bed and crash to the floor. What the. . . how the fuck. . ?  
  
Your bedroom door opens and, suddenly, your mother is standing in the doorway with her clothes pressed and ready for work. The sun is shining through your windows in bright slants of white and yellow, and you just. . . you don't. . .  
  
"What in the world are you doing up here?" She gives you a weird look. "Why are you on the ground? And what was all of that yelling?"  
  
You can only stare at her, eyes huge and rimmed red, completely numb with shock.  
  
She sighs and shakes her head. "Whatever is going on with you. . . I mean, you sleep for the entire day yesterday like the dead, and now this? When you come home from work today. . . we're going to talk, [Name]."  
  
And then she closes the door and just. . . leaves you sitting there, shivering and breathing hard as a fresh wave of tears spills down your face. It can't be. . . can it? Everything that happened. . . how the fuck was that a dream?  
  
Slowly, you peel the rest of the blankets away, and. . . you're still wearing what you had been in the asylum. Worn cargo pants muddied at the hems and thin through the knees, and a plain [color] t-shirt. . . splattered with dirt and blood.  
  
Though your legs threaten to buckle underneath your weight, you somehow manage to get up and slam the cover of your laptop shut, the screen still frozen at the very end of the first video for. . . for that Outlast play through.  
  
God, Mark. . .  
  
You drag your aching body into the shower and let burning hot water wash away all of the mud and grime. Everyone has already gone for the day, so you stay in there for at least twenty minutes. It doesn't help. The vicious spray cleans up the evidence, but you feel a lingering pain that swims through your head, to the roots of your teeth, down to your red and swollen toes.  
  
There are scratches all over your arms. Some on your neck, too. And your face. Like you were attacked by shards of flying glass. Or. . . or you were thrown through a window.  
  
You can't think straight as you get dressed. Comb your hair and pull on some jeans and button up your shirt wrong, twice. Your hands won't stop shaking, and every loud noise, every bird landing on the feeder outside and every car speeding by the neighborhood. . . you give an involuntary twitch as you glance over your shoulder, expecting to see a leering, crooked skull with broken teeth, whispering. . .  
  
_Little pig, little pig_. . . but nothing is ever there.  
  
You have no idea how you drive to work, but you actually get there in one intact piece. Your eyes stray towards the computer by the register every twenty seconds or something, your head blurring with memories of Mark.  
  
His dark, crinkled eyes and his brilliant smile. The way he laughs. The comforting weight of his hand on your shoulder. The look of panic and terror on his face as he fell. . .  
  
All you want is to see him again, in any videos, in any setting at all, just to make sure. . . You want to go onto Youtube and click on one of his random play throughs and see him just the way that he used to be. You want to see him grinning and making ridiculous jokes and you want. . .  
  
Fuck. You just want him to be okay. But. . . you can't. You can't do it, because what if something else happens? Something even worse? What if you guys get thrown into another nightmare world -like that game Ib or the Crooked Man? Or back into Outlast? Why the hell would you risk his safety just to make yourself feel better?  
  
You wouldn't. So. . . you don't. You leave the computer alone for the rest of the afternoon, and it is one of the longest, most miserable days that you have experienced in years. It looks like you won't be watching any of his videos again, probably. Whether this was your fault or not, you just. . . you can't do that to him. You don't know what the trigger was for getting the two of you to Mount Massive, but even watching something like Drunk Minecraft might transport you back.  
  
When you drive home, your mother is still gone. She left a note taped to the side door, though, and you rip it from the window without even looking at it as you traipse inside. At least you'll have some time to. . . you don't know -brace yourself for whatever she wants to talk to you about. You can't imagine that it's going to be anything pleasant. She probably thinks that you're on drugs or something. It's happened before in your broken family. . .  
  
Your weary feet eventually carry you upstairs, and you close your bedroom door behind you without bothering to turn on the lights. Going over to your laptop is automatic, and since you've been looking at his channel every day after work for the last six. . . seven months? You find yourself on his page without even thinking about it.  
  
Mark posted a VLog three hours ago, and you stare at the thumbnail of his face with huge, desperate eyes for ages. Just staring, because. . . he posted something. Which means that he must be okay, right?  
  
Everything is normal. Everything is. . . totally fine.  
  
Including you. You're fine. You're great, actually. You are so great that you exit out of the internet, close your laptop, and go downstairs for something to eat, just to take your mind off of how well that you're handling all of this. You grab the note that your mom left and bring it back upstairs with you, including a bag of potato chips.  
  
You pause on the landing, though, so you can open the note and scan it over. It's probably just something about dinner tonight or whatever. . .  
  
_Congratulations! If you are currently reading this, then that means you and your partner must have survived through night one of participating in our mandatory survey. How lucky for you._  
         _Brace yourselves, because the delightful worst has yet to come. Keep an eye out for our other notes during your venture -you will win a very exciting prize if you can find the entire collection. And, again: remember to have fun!_  
         _Oh. . . one last thing, dear guests: can you tell the difference between dreams and reality? Is there a difference at all?_  
  
You have barely finished when something crashes to the ground inside your room, and then you're dropping your chips and the fucking page as you burst through the doorway, your heart cold with dread and twisted like a length of rope around your windpipe.  
  
Your laptop is open on the rug. . . and the browser is already beginning to load the second video in a very familiar Outlast play through.  
  
Son of a. . .


	5. Ohio is For Lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was it all a dream? Or are you still dreaming? Are you sure?

You don't remember the dizziness this time. You don't even remember hitting the ground. All you do know is that in one minute, you're safe at your house, and in the next -you're blinking open heavy, stinging eyes, the world is sideways, and you're feeling like you were bludgeoned into unconsciousness with a police club or something.  
  
You are laying on cold tile floor underneath pale white lights, surrounded by broken glass. And that can only mean one thing, right? You knew that it wasn't a dream! You just _knew_ that you weren't going crazy!  
  
"Mark?" You automatically croak out.  
  
It would be sick and. . . and wrong, to be relieved at being back here. And you're not, make no mistake about that. You are not thrilled whatsoever to be stuck in an insane asylum with the very real chance that you could die within its walls. Hell, no. But. . . when you finally spot him laying four or five feet away from you, his broad chest rising and falling with an easy, reassuring rhythm. . .  
  
Something catches in your throat and buzzes through your veins and you are just so damn happy to see him again that nothing else really matters at the moment.  
  
"Hey, buddy." You rasp, crawling over as he begins to stir, and definitely trying not to grin like a loser in the process. "Rise and shine."  
  
". . .what?" Mark mumbles. "[Name]?" Blindly, he reaches out towards your voice, and your fingers are linking through his without a second thought.  
  
"Yep, alive and kicking." You assure him. "Um, maybe not the kicking part."  
  
His skin is very warm and very solid against yours, a little sweaty and peppered with tiny cuts and scratches from his award-winning tumble from the second floor. And you. . . you hold on to him with no intention of letting go as he gradually sits up. You probably should, but he doesn't seem to be in any hurry to pry the two of you apart, either. Actually. . . it feels like he squeezes your hand even tighter as he straightens out his glasses. One of the lenses is cracked, but they don't look broken.  
  
You both stay there on the floor for a few silent moments. Amidst the glass and the blood and the two or three other headless bodies scattered around the lobby, holding hands and staring at one another like nothing else in the world exists.  
  
It should be awkward, shouldn't it? It isn't. And you think that it hits him all at once, what happened to you two the last time you were here. . . and now, this. Did he believe that he was going crazy, too? Or was he hoping that it had only been some terrible nightmare?  
  
Did he remember falling when he woke up at home? Did he. . . did he remember you? You can't imagine how anyone could forget any of the shit that you saw. . . but, maybe you can. The note that Ryan left behind. . . it mentioned something about remembering things, didn't it? What if you guys hadn't?  
  
"Fuck." Mark finally huffs. An unsure, crooked smile twitches near his mouth.  
  
"I think that pretty much sums it up." You agree, chuckling weakly.  
  
He swears again and shakes his head. "I can't believe you went after that asshole with a flashlight. Do you have a death wish or something?" His low voice is thick and scratchy with emotion. "Man. Don't you remember what I told you before? About running, and _not_ fighting? We are no match for the Variants, [Name]. You could have. . ."  
  
You raise an eyebrow at him. "What? Been tossed through a window?" You interrupt. "Are you honestly going to get mad at me for wanting to save your life?"  
  
A sigh buckles his shoulders. "No, no. I'm not going to get mad. I'm just. . ." He rakes his free hand roughly through his hair, dark eyes fixed on yours. "I don't even fucking know what I am -other than confused as hell, I mean. I woke up in my bed in my apartment and I had no idea what was going on." His frowns.  
  
"I wasn't sure if you had been thrown after me. I thought that, maybe. . . Chris Walker had taken you somewhere. Like Sara. And then I thought that I was fucking losing it." He swallows. "Ah, shit."  
  
At least it wasn't just you, worrying and fearing for your sanity, and hearing him admit as much helps. God, it helps more than you can say.  
  
"It. . . was the same, for me." You mutter, feeling awkward and exposed beneath his avid stare. "But we're okay, right? We're okay, and that's all that matters."  
  
He nods wearily. "And we're not crazy."  
  
". . .well, we are still trapped in a video game. It's a little crazy."  
  
He snorts his laughter and you grin back, feeling a great surge of weight leave your chest and slide off of your shoulders at the sound. If you can still make him laugh at a time like this. . . then there might be hope, yet.  
  
You guys spend the next ten or twelve minutes talking, just attempting to process everything that is going on. You might be asleep back home, but both of you can still die there if you get hurt or killed here, apparently. And those stupid survey notes or whatever, he received the same one that you did. You certainly aren't going to be collecting any that you might come across, mainly because Ryan said not to trust them. It's definitely good advice. They are. . . unpleasantly cheerful about really unpleasant things.  
  
Eventually, you clamber to your feet and pull a groaning Mark up with you. You think that both of you might be somewhat reluctant to drop your hands, but. . . you kind of have to, don't you? At least you spy the shockingly intact Mag-Lite by the main desk, and that gives you a reason to gently tug your fingers away without making it too weird for either of you. Recovering the Mag seems to lift his spirits, and he even cheers after discovering that it still works. Which is great, actually, because you still have the spare batteries in your pocket. How? No clue, but you are certainly not going to complain about it.  
  
. . .the memory lingers, though. Like a pinprick of warmth flickering inside your chest: the heat of his skin, the weight of his hand, and his fingers laced through yours.  
  
The two of you wander through the lobby and find nothing useful before Mark motions you into a shadowed computer room off to the left of main desk. Considering that you've been on edge all damn afternoon, you're checking over your shoulder for the hundredth or the thousandth time as you anxiously follow him inside.  
  
Your skin is tight and crawling underneath your clothes as he sweeps the flashlight beam from corner to corner. You're trying to concentrate, and mainly trying not to imagine another Variant busting down one of the walls and slamming your skulls together. You don't think that Mark is faring much better, either -since you nearly send him straight through the roof after you accidentally walk into one of the computer towers.  
  
"Sorry." You whisper. "I'm just. . . um."  
  
"I know." He whispers back, and he sounds a little shaky, a little embarrassed. ". . .me, too." He pauses to wait for you when he reaches the doorway behind the computers. It appears to lead into a filing room, and then back out into the hall. "Ryan said to head for the security room, which is what Miles had to do, I'm pretty sure. . ."  
  
He runs his fingers over his dark hair, sighing quietly. You wish that there was something else that you could say. . . but, is there? Really? Is there anything at all that either of you can say that will make this easier?  
  
You find a loose battery tucked away in the filing room, which is. . . something, you guess. The next hall is lit with flickering bulbs, and it looks like a patient is passed out in a wheelchair right in the middle of everything. Figures. Mark warns you, his lips right next to your ear as to not wake the guy, that he might reach out and grab one of you on your way back through.  
  
"Okay, that's. . . not great." You mumble, pressed into the wall and staring at the greyish, sunken face bobbing against its chest. "Could we be preemptive about it? Like, wheel him to the stairs and push him down or something?"  
  
Mark gives a near silent chuckle, his breath ghosting across the side of your face. "Not so much, but I like the way you think, Shepard. We don't want to call any unwanted attention to our location."  
  
Again, with the Shepard thing! You scowl against the blush creeping up your neck as both of you inch by the wheelchair, and you _definitely_   ignore the shiver through your limbs when he leans in a bit too close again, to explain that the upcoming room will have more patients in it, but that they should leave you alone.  
  
"So, don't worry about them too much."  
  
"Me -worry? No way, Garrus. I'm as cool, calm, and collected as they come."  
  
There are three patients in the room, either too medicated. . . or simply too damaged, to notice you slipping through. The television is the only light source in the lounge, splashed with blood, playing quiet static, and at least distracting the zombie-like men.  
  
It's. . . well, it's sort of sad. Sure, this is still a place for the criminally insane. . . but the entire atmosphere in here is draining, depressing. Like a heavy smog pressing against your lungs, weighing down over your shoulders, and slowly sucking the will to live from your heart.  
  
And you guys only have five more nights to go, huh?  
  
Around the furniture and collapsed shelves is another doorway, sloppily blocked with a few wooden planks. You and Mark quickly duck underneath them and dart into the next room, where the Mag-Lite is immediately drawn to the far corner, a glowing computer screen, and a prone figure slumped back in a desk chair.  
  
"Is that. . ?" You frown.  
  
"What? Another. . . participant?" Mark drawls the last word in resignation, brushed with a lick of icy anger. "Yeah, it looks like it. Another defenseless fucking kid."  
  
Barely out of his teenage years, too. Blond and tanned with his head hardly clinging to his neck, tipped back to expose a bloated tangle of red-purple veins. His entire front is drenched in dried blood. Probably days old, going by the awful smell.  
  
Man, this is just so. . . fuck. You don't even have a word for how messed up this shit is, anymore. All of it just sucks.  
  
Pinned to his shirt is a single piece of paper. Clutched in his hand is a key card. Mark carefully takes the card, while you remove the stained paper with a tight, scrunched expression. Well, what do you know -it's a survey note.  
  
"Come on, don't bother with that." Mark touches the back of your arm. "We shouldn't play their games by reading those things."  
  
"I was just. . . oh." You swallow. "It's. . . information. On the kid." A rock drops into your stomach as you skim over the empty words. Everything is typed, but the manner in which it was written oozes this kind of blunt, horrific glee. Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad under different circumstances, but this. . . this isn't. . .  
  
     _Hey, there! I'm David, twenty years old, and I'm from Ohio. I'm in my second year at college and I'm studying to be a doctor -a neurologist, actually. For all of my life, I've wanted to help people. My mother is a psychiatrist and my father was a medic with the army. They are such kind, giving, respected people, and I hope that I've grown into someone that they can be proud of. . ._  
  
_Good going, guests! You've found the very first survey note. Doesn't David seem like a nice young man? So vibrant, so full of promise. All he wants is to make his parents happy. Do you make your parents happy?_  
     _. . .what happened to your parents, guests?_  
  
It's a trick. It's a stupid fucking trick meant to test you and twist you and. . . and. . . they couldn't know about him, could they? Oh, God. They do know. They know everything. They know exactly what happened to him and you can't think about that right now you can't think about it and you can't. . .  
  
A sudden film of tears blurs across your eyes. You don't realize that you're shaking until Mark has fit his bigger, stronger hands over yours, because then you are actually trembling with enough force to shake the both of you, your breath hitching in your chest.  
  
". . ? [Name]!" He whispers urgently. "Hey, you can't believe anything that these notes say, understand? They're nothing but lies -a bunch of damn lies made to chip away at us until we. . . until we fucking crack." His hands move up to your shoulders and he holds on tighter, brings you closer, until his handsome, stricken face is only a few inches away and you're blinking viciously through your grief just to see him.  
  
"The sole purpose of these pages is to screw with our heads." He tells you, and his voice is an impossible octave of darkness and comfort in this absolute insanity. "That's it. That's all there is to it, [Name]. I promise you. Whatever is on there, it's not real." And then he slides the note from your fingers and shreds it.  
  
Dammit. You _know_ that and you _know_ that you shouldn't let this bother you, but it does. It really fucking does. . . and you just can't help it. Those last two questions have pinned themselves behind your eyelids like thumbtacks, and all you can see is what happened to your dad playing over and over and over through your head.  
  
Has it really been that long? Has it really been. . . six years -?  
  
"I didn't think. . . I mean, I'm sorry. I know, and I'm sorry." You automatically pull away from Mark, scrubbing at your face and forcing a deep breath. Trying to pretend that you don't notice the brief flicker of hurt in his expression.  
  
"Christ, you don't need to be sorry. It's just. . . are you okay?" He frowns. His hands flex awkwardly down by his sides, like he doesn't quite know what to do with them. You can see how worried he is, how unsure he is about approaching you again.  
  
And he doesn't, which you are both utterly relieved, and miserably disappointed about it.  
  
"Oh, yeah. I'm fine." You lie, plastering on a blank smile and dying a little on the inside. "I won't read any more. So, um. We should probably. . ." You turn around and head into the hallway, and you're ducking back into the lounge room where the patients are before he has the chance to catch up.  
  
It's a punk move, you know that. And it makes you feel like an asshole, but. . . you just don't talk about personal things. You don't like talking about _anything_ that you can't deflect with grins and jokes and an extreme amount of sarcasm.  
  
Mark is an amazing team-player about it, too. Even though you don't feel like you deserve it. He leaves the subject alone, and he gives you space. . . and both of you try and ignore the slight rift of tension that now exists between you.  
  
When you return to the hallway with the man in the wheelchair, he lashes out as soon as you attempt to sneak by again. Mark and his ninja-quick skills manage to save you with a rather well-aimed _thwack_ from the flashlight. The patient crumples to the floor, still conscious and gibbering. Something about doctors?  
  
Not that you guys stick around to find out. In fact, you take off at a mutual, reckless pace, sprinting through the filing room and weaving around the desks in the computer room, until you're stumbling back into the main lobby and breathing hard, grabbing your sides and, for some reason. . .  
  
Grinning at each other like complete fools. Maybe it's a weird side-effect from all of the adrenaline pounding through your systems, mixed with a healthy dose of fear and sheer incredulity. You have no idea, but your heart is a thunderstorm raging in your ears and there is no actual way that crippled patient could have chased after you. . .  
  
And you still can't stop this absurd grin from spreading across your face. "What the hell is our problem?" You snort.  
  
Mark shakes his head, a bubble of laughter audible in his throat. "Man, I don't even know. I knew that guy was going to do that, too, and I just. . . fuck! Playing this game from the safety of my house does not compare to experiencing it in real life. Which is sort of a give-in, yeah, yeah. I know." He adds, rolling his eyes as you snicker at him.  
  
"Come on! Cut me some slack, would yah?" He gives you playful push.  
  
You push him back with a smirk. "Hey, buddy. I didn't say anything."  
  
"You didn't have to." He huffs. "It was all in the look on your face: the _I can't believe that I'm trapped in an insane asylum with someone this stupid_ -look. Don't bother denying it, either. I know what I saw."  
  
"Clearly, you don't. Because I was making the: _I'm so glad that I'm trapped in an insane asylum with someone who can make me laugh_ -look." You correct, and then instantly wish that you hadn't as you flush bright red.  
  
Mark blinks his surprise at you, and then his mouth abruptly splits with this ridiculous, beaming smile, and. . . yeah. You forgot how nice that stupid smile is. It's like staring into the sun. And just like that, a few of those heavy black clouds hovering over your head begin to dissipate. Not all of them, but. . . enough. Enough for you to start feeling almost normal again, anyways. And you're pretty grateful for that.  
  
You're pretty grateful for him, and you just wish that you could tell him that.  
  
The two of you make your way towards a different corner of the lobby and into -yes- yet another hallway. This one goes on uninterrupted for nearly the entire length, with what must be at least six rooms branching off on either side. You guys scout out the first handful and find nothing but blood, batteries. . . and bodies. The disturbing usual.  
  
A few doors up on the left, you actually find the security room. Mark flips the badge that he took from poor David through his fingers before he slides it down the lock, and the heavy metal door swings in. About a dozen monitors line one wall, and there appears to be a personal computer on the opposite side. Located right in the middle are standing lockers -a pair of them with rusted hinges.  
  
And the previous security guard, of course. He is slumped behind the door and very, very dead.  
  
"Are we accessing the systems to, what? Unlock the front door?" You ask, leaning your hands on the back of the desk chair as Mark sits down. "Why do I get the feeling that something is about to go horribly wrong?"  
  
"Because, my dear. . . something _is_ about to go horribly wrong." He types in a few words at the main terminal and a loading bar pops up. "Now, the power is going to go out thanks to that asshole, there." He gestures to the next screen over, where a man in a bizarre uniform is entering the frame. "And as soon as it does, we've got to get into those lockers really quickly. . ."  
  
Even with the warning, your heart is punching straight through your ribs when the room is plunged into darkness. Seriously, it is really, incredibly dark. You can't even see your hands in front of you before Mark is suddenly grabbing one.  
  
"Can't risk the flashlight." He hisses. "Come on, we have to hide!"  
  
"I don't know where the lockers are!" You squawk.  
  
He spins you around until you have completely lost your bearings, but then you hear the nearby _squeak_ of protesting hinges and you are tripping into a space that seems to press in on you like the walls of a coffin. You have about three seconds to squish flat against the back without being smacked by the door just as a set of emergency lights wheeze on overhead.  
  
You manage to catch Mark trying to give you a reassuring look through the grates before he vanishes into the second locker, and as soon as he does, the bolted security door gives a thundering shake inside of its frame. Just like your fucking pulse against your eardrums.  
  
This is insane. This is absolutely insane. The thing on the other side of the door would have to be stupid not to check these lockers. You guys are going to die. . . you are _so_ going to die. . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of you are amazing. Thank you. That is all =)


	6. Came Back Haunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is anything real, anymore? Was anything ever real to begin with?

The Variant breaks down the security door with a shoulder about the size of your torso, a growl building in his throat. "You were here. . . weren't you, little pigs?" Chris Walker rumbles. "I'll find you. I'll find all you whores. . ."  
  
You clamp your hands over your mouth and try not to breathe, your eyes wide as you inch away from the visible grates in the locker. Not that you can really move, but you have no idea how much he can see from the other side. Does the light filter in through the gaps? If he looks closer, will he find you guys?  
  
The Variant carefully stalks the length of the room, hesitates, and then returns to the hall. You are nearly dizzy with relief when he finally stomps off into the gloom, but you don't dare fucking move. Not yet. And Mark must be thinking along the same lines, because the two of you remain hidden for. . . you don't know. Seconds pass like small eternities in here. The air is heavy and stale, and your heart is a swollen mass of nervous energy throbbing against your chest.  
  
Maybe five minutes or twenty years later, you give a slight push on the door. When the hinges groan open you flinch at the sound, but Chris Walker doesn't come storming back in to do. . . whatever it is that the Variants do to their victims, and neither does anyone else. You let out such a tremendous sigh that you almost choke out a laugh with it, too, and you rub the back of your hand across your sweating brow as the other locker rattles.  
  
"Are you alive in there, buddy?" You ask.  
  
"I don't fucking know." Mark gasps, almost falling into you in an effort to get out. "Holy shit." He shakes his head, his hair a ruffled mess and his glasses dangerously askew. "I might be a little more claustrophobic than I first thought."  
  
You grab his arm to steady him, frowning in concern. "So. . . the vents are okay, but the lockers are problematic? We can probably try and avoid them in the future, if it's that bad."  
  
"No, no. We don't need to do that." He fixes his glasses and attempts to smooth his hair down while you take the flashlight. "It's fine. I'll be fine. I just need a minute. . . to breathe, and hopefully not have an aneurysm."  
  
"Yeah, sure. No problem." You keep frowning at him, but you don't push it. How can you? You guys are barely hanging on by a thread, here. You need as much confidence in yourselves as well as each other.  
  
If he says that he's okay. . . you've got to believe him.  
  
You give his back an encouraging pat as you approach the doorway. Slowly, you crouch down and peer out past the massacred frame -first left, and then right. But these flat yellow emergency lights must only be for key areas of the asylum, because everything else is drenched in oily shadow. Except for the very ends of the corridors, anyways, Both are lit up by the ghostly red of twin EXIT signs.  
  
No Chris Walker, though. And you don't know whether you should be glad for that, or slightly more nervous than usual. Guess you should take what you can get, right? You click on the Mag-Lite and do a brief sweep, and the bulb dims warningly just as you turn it off again. Both of you seem to be in the clear. . .  
  
This time, when you feel a hand on your shoulder, you don't jump. . . much. "Nothing." You say, holding the flashlight up for him. "Everything looks okay. But, since we have no power, does that mean we have to go flip a few circuit breakers somewhere?"  
  
Mark accepts the light as you stand up. "You guessed it." He nods. He still looks a bit wired, but he sounds calmer and more in control. "I mean, not really circuit breakers. I think that it was a generator."  
  
"And generators are usually in basements, aren't they?"  
  
". . .usually, yeah."  
  
You exchange uncomfortable expressions. It's not like you have any choice, though. You have to play through and survive for the next five nights, which means venturing into the insane asylum basement and. . . praying for the best. Or at least praying that you guys don't die. You've been praying for that a lot, lately.  
  
Back in the main lobby, there is a staircase just to the right of your current location. It's better lit than the hall, which could be good or bad -depending on what might be waiting for you at the bottom. You take a breath and glance at Mark. He glances at you and shrugs. Without a word, you start down the stairs side-by-side.  
  
The air grows steadily cooler as you go. No, not so much cooler as it is, just. . . damp. Sticky and unpleasant and wet with mildew. And the reason for that becomes obvious when you round the corner: there is a busted pipe hanging from the ceiling, spraying a brownish, foul-smelling water over the cement floor.  
  
"Thirsty?" You quietly joke, as both of you reach the bottom step.  
  
"Oh, yeah." Mark pulls a face. "I'm definitely thirsty enough to drink any strange or unknown liquids that we come across in this place." He pauses, his brows furrowing. "Actually, I don't think that I would want to drink any _normal_ water from here, either. What constitutes as normal in an asylum? Maybe the doctors put hallucinogens in the water tanks or something. How do we know?"  
  
You snort under your breath. ". . .that is an incredibly astute observation, Garrus. I'm officially impressed."  
  
"As you should be, darling. I'm a very impressive guy." He puffs out his chest and flashes you a big, smug smile.  
  
You roll your eyes, but still end up chuckling as you elbow him in the side. Your laughter is quick to turn into exaggerated groans of disgust, though -and maybe not so exaggerated- as you two wade through the brackish ocean that is this part of the basement. Your high tops are soaked within a minute, and then your socks are the next to go. You have no clue how you're going to be able to keep up with the whole stealth-mode thing, now. Your shoes are going to be squeaking for _hours_ before they dry out. . .  
  
There is a broken space between the walls ahead and a mess of crumbling stones that seem to be pointing the way, so you guys squeeze by with. . . minimal-ish difficulty. You scratch up one of your arms pretty bad, but it's nothing that will kill you. Mark catches the bottom of his t-shirt on the bricks and rips the hem with an annoyed moan.  
  
"Son of a -!" He looks down with a huge sigh. "Okay, never mind. I'm good. I'm okay. It's just my shirt, and not my. . . intestines, or anything important. I guess. No reason to get upset. . ."  
  
"It's all right to mourn for your shirt, you know." You are in the middle of attempting to blot some of the shallow cuts on your forearm with your own tee. "This is a judge-free zone. Ah, for the most part. I'm not promising anything if you say or do something really stupid, buddy."  
  
He considers that, and then nods. "Fair enough, and the same goes for you."  
  
You huff and shake your head, unable to help a grin as you slowly move on. It's hard to stay quiet, sloshing through so much damn water, but you think that the pair of you manage as best as you can. You finally stumble upon the generator room, and yet. . . things are never as simple as they appear. And why would they be? You have to turn on the two gas pumps and the main breaker to get the generator going again, and the Mag-Lite ends up sputtering out on you as you're squinting at the operating panel.  
  
"So, how many batteries does that leave us with?" Mark asks, a trace of nervousness in his voice. He fumbles with the top of the Mag-Lite and it takes a few extra moments for him to screw it back on.  
  
You check and double-check your pockets. ". . .uh, one. I think. Hang on." You're about to triple check, just to be safe, when you hear something.  
  
Footsteps, maybe? You aren't sure. But you turn your head around fast enough to wince as a sharp pain lances up your neck.  
  
"What's wrong?" Mark whispers urgently, immediately shining the light behind you.  
  
"I don't. . . know." A strange chill wraps around your spine. "I thought that. . ?"  
  
You have no idea what you thought, actually. The next thing that begins to filter through the white-hot haze inside your head is: _holy shit, what the fuck just hit me?_   It was fast and solid, definitely a body, and it sends you tumbling back into the ankle-deep water with a strangled swear. There is a dizzying fog of pain and fright stabbing at the corners of your brain. . . but, the match-strikes of adrenaline against your veins overwhelm all else.  
  
Mark screams your name. The glare from the flashlight bounces every which way, and it reveals. . . a girl. Fucking hell -it's just a girl, about your age, her eyes huge and filled with tears and a crazed, desperate expression on her face. And she is trying to smash your skull in with a brick.  
  
"Hey, hey -!" You yelp, struggling to shove her away. "What the hell are you doing -?" She is much smaller than you are -not to mention slightly out of her mind- so it doesn't take long for you to overpower her.  
  
"Come on, Rachel -finish her!" An unknown voice demands, as you rip the brick from her hands and pin her flat to the ground. "We have to win!"  
  
But. . . she just won't stop. She flails and thrashes underneath you and sobs her damn heart out for some kid named Travis while you attempt to reason with her -which does you a fat load of good. It's like trying to talk to the fucking wall. She won't listen. She won't even look at you, and you can't divert your attention to check on the loud, disjointed slaps and curses of another fist fight happening nearby, because keeping her subdued is taking every ounce of strength that you have.  
  
You still can't figure out how it happens, but the girl. . . Rachel, or whatever, she manages to snap her head up and bite a small chunk of skin from your arm. After that, everything kind of swims together in red, anger, and agony.  
  
You remember the girl screaming, and you remember something heavy in your hands, and you remember the shrill silence that follows as something wet. . . and uncomfortably warm, splashes your face.  
  
"[Name]. . ?"  
  
You know that voice, don't you? Yeah, that one. . . belongs to Mark. You look to your right and see him on his knees, his glasses gone, with another boy spitting and squirming and trapped in a tight head-lock under his arm.  
  
"[Name]?" He says again. The question is a rough scratch from his throat, and you don't know if he can see you. . . but the other kid still can. When his eyes find yours, and then drop to the body next to you. . . he lets out this gut-wrenching howl that drives into your brain like a spray of nails.  
  
Oh, shit. _Shit_. Oh, oh. . . God, what did you do? What did you just fucking do?  
  
"I'm. . . I'm here, Mark." You choke out. "I'm here."  
  
And then the brick slips from your fingers with a crash to the ground, and you can't. . . do anything. You sit there in the water running dark against the glow of the fallen Mag-Lite, and you stare at the ruined, bloody mess of the girl sprawled in front of you. And for a minute, there is nothing.  
  
Until you hear a grunt of pain, another muffled shriek, and your chin jerks up just in time to catch that kid, Travis, maybe, launching himself at you. One hundred and ninety pounds worth of rage and broken sobs. You're scrambling backwards on instinct, your every limb trembling as you kick out in the same instance that Mark dives for his legs.  
  
Your high tops catch him directly in the face. A few teeth fly out between his lips. More blood. So much fucking blood. Mark hisses a streak of expletives when he catches an elbow in the gut, and somehow you've managed to find that goddamn brick again. You guys work together this time, and the kid is such a wreck. . . he just stops fighting back.  
  
Mark has his hands wrapped around his neck, and you bash in a second, pitiful face with enough force to make your arms go numb. And you bring that brick down again and again and again. . . until you can't feel your hands. Until your chest is about to burst apart and your eyes are burning and you can't feel anything at all.  
  
"Hey, hey." Someone rasps. A gentle brush of fingers. "You can let go, [Name]. Please, let go."  
  
You drop the brick and collapse back against the wall. Something salty-wet and rubbery floods the inside of your mouth, and when you look at those kids just laying there, when you see all of their blood on your skin and on your clothes. . . you lean over and throw up.  
  
This can't be happening. This. . . cannot have happened. You didn't. . . You didn't mean to. . .  
  
You are light-headed and shaking violently by the time that you try to move again. Someone is helping you, rubbing soft circles into your back and guiding you upright. And that's when you realize that something must have finally broken in you, because you don't. . . you can't, push him away.  
  
Mark locks his arms around you and, God -he is shivering, too. He has a wicked black eye and a swollen bottom lip, dripping pink down into the collar of his shirt. His glasses are still missing and you can see every tear clinging to his lashes and staining his face and you just. . . He wordlessly leans his head against yours and you pull him closer, hold him tighter, and squeeze your eyes shut.  
  
The fight was loud. If there was anyone else. . . or any thing else lurking down here, they are probably on their way to investigate right now. You guys should go, find a place to hide. You should. . . you have to. . .  
  
But you can't. You don't think that your legs could support your weight if you tried to stand, let alone tried to run. Besides. . . you don't want to leave his embrace. You don't want to think about what you did. You don't want to think, period. Mark is _warm_ and he is _safe_ and he is right _here_.  
  
And he's the only thing that you have in this awful place to hold on to.  
  
It can't be more than a few minutes that the two of you cling to each other, huddling in the cold, crawling darkness, when the noises start. One person, two? Who the fuck knows? You hear something heavy slamming into a wall or a door and you have to bite your lip to keep from whimpering as you and Mark struggle to your feet.  
  
You are so exhausted that even the smallest motions hurt, but you soldier on. You both do, because you have to. Mark remembers to grab the Mag-Lite along the way, and then you are tripping and stumbling into one another while you head towards a set of stairs behind the generator. It doesn't matter where you're going. You don't know, and you don't care. You don't think that he cares, either.  
  
The next room is dappled with musty shadows, random electronic equipment, and more broken shelves. Mark slams his fist into a switch on the closest machine and the pump shudders to life. Which is at least one thing that you don't have to worry about.  
  
Though, now there is something else to take its place. As Mark leads you behind the loose stones and debris for a place to hide, the weirdest sensation starts racing through your limbs. Like, when your leg falls asleep on you? That bizarre, ants-marching underneath your flesh sort of feeling? It reminds you of that, only. . . sharper. Almost painful. It starts at the very tips of your toes and the edges of your fingers, and. . .  
  
"Mark -?" You whisper, your voice catching.  
  
The two of you duck into a corner nearly invisible from the doorway, but still with enough gloom to make out most of the room. Well, more or less. And what you can see, or don't see, actually. . . is too much for your already fucked-up head to comprehend. The fuzzy tingling in your limbs is worsening, and, shit. Mark must be more out of it than you are if he can't feel what's going on. . .  
  
"What? Is something wrong?" He rips his bloodshot gaze from the door and you silently look down at your linked hands. He follows your line of sight. . . and his face turns a sickly shade of gray.  
  
". . . yeah, you could say that." You mutter weakly.  
  
There is no other way to describe it, but. . . both of you are fading. You can see the cement floor straight through your skin and clothes, and it's spreading. Up your wrists, your arms. . . you are slowly becoming more and more transparent as the seconds pass.  
  
"[Name]?" He swallows. "What's happening to us?"  
  
You just shake your head and draw in a stuttering breath. Seriously, you barely have the mental strength to string together sentences by this point. You couldn't come up with answers even if you were paid to. Your feet and legs are completely gone, and you're just. . . you are so tired. . .  
  
"I'm sorry." You manage, and a film of tears blurs across your eyes.  
  
". . .me, too." He whispers back.  
  
You stare at each other, and whatever is out there with the generator, it seems to have finally found you. The metal door into your room is clanging inside its frame, but there is just. . . there is really nowhere else for you to go. You'll get caught, or. . . at this rate, you'll simply disappear. You don't know which is worse.  
  
You think that the both of you move in the same instance. As soon as the door opens and crashes into the wall, Mark has flung his arms around you and you've done the same to him. You close your eyes, burying your face into his neck, and the world is drowned out by a blast of white noise.  
  
And then. . . you hear something different. Something that you're not expecting.  
  
_". . .are you okay, kiddo?"_  
  
You blink uncertainly, squinting into a strange, unfamiliar light. What the. . ? Where are you? What happened?  
  
_"Come back to me, now. Come back home."_  
  
Who is that? His voice. . . Oh, God. . . You lift a hand to shield yourself from the worst of the glare, and you barely make out the shape of a tall figure at the edge of the dazzling white. It looks like its holding out its hand.  
  
"Dad?" You whisper, and your voice sounds. . . funny. A little younger, a little distorted in this endless space. ". . . is that you?" Your heart is stretched so tightly through your ribs, you think that it might shatter into a thousand pieces.  
  
_"Wake up, kid. You're gonna be just fine."_  
  
You blink again, and the bitter flood of tears finally starts to fall. The glowing figure is moving farther and farther away from you, but it's still waiting. It's still holding out its hand, and you can't move. You can't get any closer and you can't reach him and please, no. Don't leave again, dad. Please don't leave you here alone!  
  
The light slowly begins to tunnel out as the figure melts into the horizon, and wherever you are starts to blur together. . .  
  
"[Name]? Are you okay?"  
  
And the light is gone. You're. . . you're suddenly standing in the middle of the store -the nutritional store where you work at. Bright fluorescent lights. Giant glass windows. Shelves of wrapped products lurching and wobbling out of control.  
  
Your co-worker is watching you, a frown on her face as she tilts her head. "[Name]? You kind of zoned out there for a few minutes." She looks worried. "Is something wrong?"  
  
How about, everything? Your stomach heaves at the mere memory of what you've just experienced.  
  
"Um, I've gotta. . ." You quickly move past her, the floor sloping like uneven basement stairs under your feet, and reddish tiles sloshing over your shoes like dirty puddles of blood.  
  
You can't breathe. _You can't fucking breathe_ and you don't know who else you bump into as you make your way to the back of the store, but you can't. . . Oh, dammit. God-dammit! You wrench open the bathroom door and throw yourself at the sink as you vomit up whatever was left in your system after the first time.  
  
Your eyes and throat burn. Layers of icy sweat bead up along your brow and drip frozen icicles down your back. You don't. . . you don't know how long you stay hunched over the sink, but even when you're finished. . . you cling to the white stone basin for dear life. A quiet sob escapes your lips as you rest your pounding head against the marble.  
  
What the. . . what the hell is happening to you? How are you at work? Have you really been functioning like a normal human being for this entire time? How is that possible? How could you have been here. . . when you weren't?  
  
Are you losing your mind? You are, aren't you? This doesn't feel real, and how scary is that? Being back in your regular time and reality doesn't even feel fucking real anymore.  
  
You splash your face with shaking hands. Unwillingly, your gaze is drawn to the dusty mirror hanging above the faucet. . . and what you see in the glass scares you more than anything. The swollen red circles underneath empty eyes. The dirt on your cheeks, the dried blood on your clothes. The pale scars on your arms and the fingertip bruises around your neck.  
  
And the longer you stare, the worse your appearance becomes.  
  
With a flinch, you turn away from your reflection and slump back into the wall. It's. . . quiet, in here. The lighting is softer. The shadows are deeper. You feel. . . you feel like you could stay locked in this small room and, maybe. . . hopefully, everyone would just forget about you. It's safe in here. You could stay forever. No monsters. No crazy asylum patients. Just. . . silence.  
  
If only you could. If only you could get to Mark, and then. . . the two of you could stay together. You could stay locked away from the world forever.


	7. Shades of Gray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in your normal reality. . . for now.

No, you don't stay in the bathroom forever -even though you honestly want nothing more. You try and clean up before you head back out into the real world, but no amount of cold water and soap can wash away the blood stains. As long as you can find your sweatshirt and hide most of the evidence. . . you should be fine.  
  
Heather, your co-worker, is on the phone when you eventually reappear. After she hangs up, you can't help wondering, dully, if it was your mother that she was speaking to.  
  
"Hey, I'm sorry about earlier. I didn't mean to just vanish like that." Your COLLEGE logo hoodie is on the chair by the counter, and you pull it on with jerky, awkward movements, hoping that she isn't going to ask about the stains.  
  
She doesn't.  
  
"It's okay, [Name]. I was just concerned. You've been acting. . . I don't know, a little odd today." She furrows her brows as she glances you over, and an anxiousness settles in her expression at what she sees.  
  
You know, you know. You look absolutely miserable. You feel fucking miserable, too. But what the hell are you supposed to tell her?  
  
The silence between the two of you stretches into uncomfortable territory as you shrug, balling your hands into the front pocket of your sweatshirt. "I think that I might be coming down with something." You finally say. "A weird strain of the flu, or. .  . whatever. It's been an on and off thing for the last three days."  
  
It's an easy lie, and Heather seems to relax when she hears it. "Oh, I'm so sorry. Are you all right to keep working. . ?" She checks the clock over her shoulder. "Actually, if you want to go home and get some rest, I can close up for us."  
  
Relieved, unexpected tears prickle at the corners of your eyes. "Really? You would do that?" Your smile must be the most pathetic sight in the entire world right now.  
  
"Of course, honey." She smiles warmly in response. "You always cover for me when I need it, and you really. . . you really don't look well. I think that you should get home as soon as possible."  
  
Good idea.  
  
You thank her at least six times, and then you leave through the back exit with a knot in your throat and your entire body trembling. Your coordination is just about shot, so you have to stay in the parking lot, shivering in your car as it begins to snow, until you feel confident enough to drive. You must sit there for almost twenty minutes, your head full of nothing but zig-zags of pain and a distant, cotton-like numbness.  
  
Somehow. . . you arrive at your house. Your mother is there. Her husband is not. Small miracles, you guess. When you traipse in through the side door, brushing the snow from your hood and desperate for something to drink, she's waiting for you in the kitchen. Heather must have called her again.  
  
"Hi." You mumble out a greeting as you open the fridge.  
  
"[Name]. . ." She begins, and your chest tightens. "You know that you can tell me anything, right?" Her voice is weary, resigned -like she is dreading to hear the very worst. "If you're. . . if you're in trouble at all. . ."  
  
Now, listen. You love your mother. She really does her best with. . . everything that she can. She got re-married three years ago and has a pretty decent career as a secretary at the local health clinic. Ironic, right? But that's not the point. Your mother is an incredible woman who deserves the world.  
  
It's just. . . she doesn't seem to understand that being your mother doesn't automatically make her your friend. You don't care if that makes you sound terrible or what. . . but you truly cannot talk to her. Not about anything serious or important, anyways. Not since what happened to your dad.  
  
You're still angry with her about that.  For not helping. For not telling you the truth. You're still angry with her about a lot of things. You've learned to live with it.  
  
"I know, mom." You reiterate for the hundredth or the millionth time. "But I have nothing to tell. I'm just. . . I haven't been feeling that great, lately. I got sick at work and I just wanted to come home and lay down." You twist the cap on your water bottle as an excuse to avert your eyes, and you take a long, slow drink.  
  
The water is cold and wonderfully smooth. It soothes the worst of the ache in your raw throat and helps calm your stomach down. You've drained about half of it before you realize, with your mother still studying you from where she leans against the sink. Her lips are pursed, expression inscrutable.  
  
She doesn't believe you.  
  
You replace the cap on the bottle and sigh under your breath. "What? What do you want from me? A heartfelt confession? Do you want me to admit that I've been snorting coke or dating a thug? Fuck!" You rub at one of your eyes, furiously hating the sting of tears that threaten to return.  
  
"That isn't what I meant, and you know it!" She tries to argue. "Your brother would tell me the same exact thing. . ."  
  
"No, mom." You interrupt. Your face is a brilliant, flaming red, and you can feel yourself getting worked up without even meaning to. "I'm not finished. When have I ever done anything that toed the line of your acceptable boundaries? When have I ever done something as stupid or as reckless as my brother? I'm twenty-four years old, and I am not a child. You shouldn't look at me as if I am, or. . . as if I'm him! I am _not_ my brother, and you should know that by now."  
  
You take a long breath, and keep fighting back waves of those damn tears as you turn around.  
  
"Now. . . I'm going upstairs, and I'm going to lay down." You croak. "I don't feel well, and that's the long and fucking short of it."  
  
Your mom doesn't call you back. And if she did, you wouldn't have answered her. You climb the stairs, kick off your boots, and close your bedroom door behind you. You don't even make it two steps before you fall back against the wall. Your legs just. . . give out, and you sit there in the silence, in the fading light of the afternoon, and you start to cry.  
  
You killed two kids with your bare hands today. Kids your age. Kids with people in their lives who are going to miss them. Kids who might have been going to college or starting their own families or. . . shit. You can't. You can't think. You can't. . .  
  
You've reached the point of exhaustion where sleep is almost impossible. After taking a shower, you dress in something comfortable and pull on an old baseball hoodie. A [baseball team] one that belonged to your dad. It's been six whole years. . . and some days can be better than others. . . but the ache never goes away. You miss him so much that you can barely function sometimes. He was. . . everything, to you. He was your whole world.  
  
Do you make your parents happy? Did you. . . did you make him happy? If you did, then. . . why did he have to go? Why did he have to leave you behind?  
  
You lay down on top of your bed and stare up at the ceiling with wide, unseeing eyes. The snow is falling heavier outside the window, and the winds are picking up. The second floor of the house creaks and groans whenever it whips through. . . but all you can hear are doors banging open and thundering footsteps.  
  
Voices growling in your head. Voice screaming. Voices sobbing. A young man named Travis and a girl named Rachel. Other innocent victims of this fucking insanity who only wanted to make it home. And Mark. . .  
  
You roll over onto your side, but your eyes refuse to close. They hurt. Everything hurts. It's been two nights, and you feel. . . you already feel like giving up.  
  
Hours pass. You might catch twenty or thirty minutes of restless sleep before you're jerking awake again, thinking that you've gone back to the asylum. That something is watching you, or standing over you. . . or choking you. You can still feel her fingers squeezing around your neck.  
  
She was crying. You remember that. Rachel was crying. She was probably terrified, and she didn't know what else to do. Her and Travis must have believed the words from the first survey note, the one that. . . that spoke about eliminating the competition. To be in such a frame of mind, to honestly consider that killing other kids was going to make their situation easier. . .  
  
You can't even imagine it. And you never would have done. . . what you did, if they had only tried to talk to you and Mark. . .  
  
Dammit. You fumble around on your nightstand and end up finding a package of crackers. Stale, no doubt, but you really have to eat something. And stale crackers are better than nothing, because you definitely don't want to go downstairs. There might be more if you turn on some lights. . . but you don't want to do that, either.  
  
You devour all six, rather bland cheese crackers, and your laptop catches the corner of your eye as you're searching for another package. Well, sleep seems to be out of the equation, so. . . Why the hell not? You manage to unearth a box of blueberry Poptarts in a stroke of decent fortune, and then drag the twenty pound machine on to your thighs.  
  
The first article on your homepage is about two mysterious deaths: a girl from Maine, and a boy from Florida. You quickly type something else in the address bar, swallowing back the sourness of guilt that fills your mouth. If you hadn't. . . it would have been two very different names in those headlines.  
  
If you hadn't killed them, they would have killed you and Mark. That is the only way that you can justify what happened. It was the both of you or the both of them. . . wasn't it? There was nothing else that you could have done. . . right?  
  
It's those survey assholes who started this. It's their fault, not yours.  
  
Like usual, you've returned to Youtube without conscious thought. You don't know what time it is -maybe eight or nine or something- but Mark posted another VLog two hours ago. You guys are going to be returning to Mount Massive, regardless, so you click on the link, holding your breath. . . and not at all prepared for the dagger that slides between your ribs when his profile takes to the screen.  
  
He looks. . . fuck. He tried to cover the shiner, but you can still see the black and purple smears that surround his left eye, even with his glasses on. He must have had a spare set at his apartment. His bottom lip is still swollen and there are some scratches on his chin, and he just. . . he just smiles brightly and waves for his webcam, but he looks worn down to the very edges. It breaks your fucking heart.  
  
"Hey, guys!" He begins, his voice dramatically chipper. "And I know that my appearance isn't quite up to my usual standards, as all of you may have noticed." He points to the shiner and sighs. "There were some technical difficulties during the filming of the last comedy sketch. But don't you worry your pretty. . . and handsome, little heads!" He grins. "Minus a few scrapes and bruises, I'm totally fine."  
  
He pauses, then, and you can see it flicker. The mask slips just a little bit, and his dark eyes are lost and haunted as he runs a hand through his hair. But he shakes his head, and his smile bounces back. You could have just convinced yourself that you weren't paying attention, or that it was simply a trick of the light. . .  
  
It was there, though. And you saw it.  
  
"I also wanted to let you guys know that. . . um." He hesitates again. "I'm dealing with some personal things right now, and I'm going to try and upload as many videos as I can. . . I mean, I don't want to leave you hanging or anything. But, for the next week or so, my channel might be a little slow. Like I said, it's nothing to worry about." He tries to reassure everyone. "It's just. . . I need some time, and I don't want to make anyone panic or think that I'm quitting Youtube or whatever -which I'm not! No, I'm definitely not."  
  
He sighs quietly and attempts a third, not quite believable smile. "I'll be keeping you guys updated often, either like this or in my Let's Plays, so you'll never be without _any_ videos. But, uh. . . yeah. I think that's everything." He nods. "Except. . ."  
  
You are about to exit out of the video when you hear your name, and the whole world pretty much stops.  
  
"[Name], I don't. . . I don't know. . ." A shadow crosses over his expression. "If you're watching this, please. . . leave a comment somewhere below." He says, with an audible trace of desperation in his tone. "You have to let me know that you're all right."  
  
You tune out for the last sixty seconds with your heart in your throat, and a surprising flare of warmth stealing through your limbs. It is such an overwhelming relief to hear that Mark seems to be thinking about you as much as you've been thinking about him.  
  
But, what should you say to him? You're scrolling down the page, and most of the messages that have been submitted are sweet and supportive. These kids just want whatever is best for Mark, and if he wants a break, they want him to take as much time as he needs. A stray few are. . . well. You know, assholes. And the rest are simply confused. There are already two or three comments from different girls mentioning that they have the same name as yours.  
  
And, what? How the hell would he be able to even recognize your message amidst these hundreds of others? Man, in the last minute, yet another girl called [Name] has assured him that she is, in fact, okay. There is no way that he could differentiate between her note and whatever you decide to send out. . .  
  
Oh. Oh, hang on.  
  
For the first time all afternoon, a hint of an actual smile tugs at the side of your mouth. You scroll up to the comment box and quickly type in: _I'm okay, Garrus. I'm home_. And you end it with a: _Shepard, out_.  
  
This has to work. He _has_ to know that one is from you. Wow, you haven't felt this genuinely hopeful in. . . you don't know when, to be honest. But Mark just has that effect over you. His smile, his laugh, his stupid fucking jokes. God, you miss him. You wish that he was here, or that you were out there with him.  
  
Ten minutes later, you have a private message flashing in your inbox. You're grinning through your tears even before you open it. This is so absurd. . .  
  
 **Markiplier** : _That was brilliant -using those names. I was just so out of my head when I finished that vlog, I didn't even think about how complicated everything could get with my fans. You really have no idea how happy I am to hear from you, Shep_.  
  
You are pretty sure that you're beaming at your stupid computer when the screen suddenly powers down. You barely have two seconds to make this weird, confused face at how lousy the timing is. . . before white print is flashing across the endless black.  
  
 _This is just a friendly reminder that participants are not allowed to interact with one another outside of the survey grounds ~  
                   Anyways, congratulations on surviving through night two. It appears that you and your partner show a wonderful amount of promise, finding our notes and even taking down two other competitors! Very promising, indeed. We can only hope that your performance continues to improve during your special time with us.  
                  Are you enjoying yourselves yet, guests? We certainly are. Take a deep breath and find peace when you can, because you probably won't have it for long_.  
  
And then your computer signs back on. Only. . . Youtube is blocked. There is no way around the wall whatsoever. You try every other communications website that Mark belongs to, and absolutely none of them will work. You are. . . you are just so goddamn finished. With all of this shit. You don't know what to do, anymore. You don't know. . .  
  
You are just so fucking tired. Hell, at least you were able to get _something_ to Mark. The two of you are both okay. Well, physically, maybe. . . but you're not really sure about anything else. You don't feel all that okay, and you think. . . you think that might be something that you're going to have to live with.  
  
Using the computer seems rather pointless now. Sighing, you push the machine onto the floor and drag your electric blanket up, up, and over your head. The only thing that you have to do now is wait.  
  
Wait for the darkness to drag you back into hell.  
  
Some thirty minutes later, as you're drifting through a drowsy, semi-conscious memory of your childhood, there is a soft knock on your door. It can only be one person, and your mother hesitates out in the hallway with a sad, apologetic look on her face. She has a plastic tray in her hands, piled high with saltine crackers, some water bottles, and a steaming bowl of what smells like cream of chicken soup.  
  
You sit up in mild shock, rubbing at your eyes as she approaches.  
  
"I'm sorry, [Name]." She says, and her awkward expression is a near replica of your own whenever emotional things are involved. "I'm. . . I'm sorry. About before."  
  
You stare as she sets the tray down on your nightstand, and just as she turns to leave, you can't. . . help it, really. You have cried more today than you ever have in your entire life, and your exhausted brain won't stop thinking about her and your father and your loser brother and Mark and Travis and Rachel and even poor Ryan and Sara. . .  
  
And you lose it completely. You bury your face in your hands and dissolve into sobs.  
  
"I don't want to go back, I don't want to go. . ." You hiccup, feeling the bed dip and thin, familiar arms pulling you into a hug. "I can't do it again, mom. I can't do it. I can't be strong when he needs me to and I just. . . I can't. I can't fucking do it!"  
  
The words spill past your lips without filter or reason. But, even as you say them. . . you can feel something inside you begin to form and sharpen into something new. Something solid and strong and nearly invincible being built in the wake of utter, catastrophic destruction.  
  
You are not brave or selfless -no way in hell. And you are sure not a freakin' hero. But you guys are going to win this. You and Mark. . . you are going to do whatever it takes to see both of you through this madness, so you can get him back home, safe and sound. As long as you can protect him, you really. . . you don't care what happens to you.  
  
And it's almost frightening, how firm and steady that thought comes to you. You would do anything for that kid.  
  
The tears dry up as quickly as they started, and soon enough, you are gently pushing your mother back with a distinct sense of discomfort. "Um. . . thanks." You mutter, flushing a dark, ashamed red. "I've just been having nightmares since. . . since I caught this bug thing. I'll be all right."  
  
"Are you sure?" She frowns, looking faintly disturbed by your reaction. Which makes two of you, by the way. "Sometimes, talking about them. . . it can help?" But she doesn't sound particularly sure about that.  
  
"It's okay." You repeat, mustering up a bland smile. "I'm going to eat this great soup that you made, and then probably crash for the next two days straight. I really appreciate this."  
  
"Of course, [Name]." She gives your hand a slight pat. "And I do hope that you feel better soon. Now, get some rest."  
  
As soon as she closes the door, you practically attack the food that she left behind. God, you are starving. Making up your mind like that. . . you don't even know how to describe this new, weird meld of emotions humming through your veins. Determination, maybe? Resolve? A grim note of confidence? Well, whatever they are. . .  
  
All you know for certain is that no one is going to see you break down like that ever again. And you are not going to allow yourself to think about those other kids. You can't. Your priority is Mark, and that's it. The rest can wait until. . . until psychological trauma sets in, followed by years worth of anti-psycho drugs and useless therapy visits. You've done it once, and you can do it again if you have to.  
  
So. . . bring on the fucking nightmares.


	8. The Tragic Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You didn't think that you wanted to tell anyone, ever. But. . . maybe, Mark isn't just anyone.

It's amazing what a decent meal can do for you when you feel lousy. You still can't sleep, but you manage to grab an hour or two between the vicious dreams before morning rolls around. Which is. . . unexpected, to be honest. Because you're still here. You're still at home. You aren't sure. . . well, shouldn't you have been taken back to Mount Massive by now? You received a survey note letting you know that you survived night two, etc. etc. And you're certain that Mark would have gotten the same one.  
  
So. . . what? What's going on?  
  
You sit up and bring your knees to your chest, eyes narrowed and staring out the window. More snow, of course. It seems like it hasn't stopped for two months straight.  
  
Wonder what it's like in California. You wonder if Mark is awake yet, or. . . if he was able to sleep at all. You wonder if his nightmares are as bad as yours. You wonder. . . Dammit. You don't know. You wish that you could talk to him -and about anything other than this hell that the two of you are going through. Enough to make you friends, and not just friends by circumstance. Real friends. Or, maybe. . ?  
  
_No_. Not really the time to think about anything else. Certainly not anything else that will complicate your already miserable situation, anyways.  
  
Sighing, you drag your sore body into the bathroom and take a long time getting washed up. You aren't worried about going into work, so you don't bother getting dressed. What's the point? Unless, of course, something bizarre like yesterday happens again. It was. . . unsettling. And really disorienting. Coming back to this world, right in the middle of your shift? Was someone, or something, controlling you? Pretending that everything was all hunky-dory while you and Mark fought for your lives? Or were you in some kind of dream state?  
  
Guess that you guys probably won't find out.  
  
You wipe the condensation from the mirror above the sink and practically jump out of your skin at what you see. Yelping out, you duck and cover your head just as Chris Goddamn Walker launches his planet-sized fist right where you were standing. And instead of likely killing you with a one hit knockout, his hand smashes into the mirror. Hundreds of glass pieces explode outwards, peppering your exposed bits of flesh just as you hit the ground.  
  
What the. . ? Seriously?! You don't even have time to think about the absolute insanity that this situation is before he is calling you a _whore_ and attempting to grab at your hair. Man, how the fuck did he get here?!  
  
You scramble through his legs, your head screaming with panic and adrenaline. His giant sausage fingers barely miss yanking on your hoodie as you trip through the doorway, and then you're bolting down the stairs in a blind rush, guided by instinct alone. Okay, okay. No one is home, so you don't have to worry about that, but. . . shit! Your family lives in a small house at the edge of nowhere! Where the hell are you supposed to hide to lose this jerk?  
  
It sounds like he is breaking through every damn stair behind you and you have no idea where to go. . . so you try the back door and -what the hell? The fucking thing is locked from the outside! There are massive industrial chains linked across the glass and the surrounding windows all have bars on them and you just. . . you can't believe. . .  
  
The only place left for you is the basement, which is no doubt going to be a trap. Not that you have a choice, though, so you fling open a nearby bedroom door hard enough for it to slam into the wall before creeping as quietly as possible into the darkness of the basement. The noise might throw off the Variant and give you the few, precious moments that you need to find a place to hide.  
  
Thankfully, your basement is an incredible mess of junk. Something down here should work as adequate cover. There are mazes of shelves and broken furniture pieces and. . . and. . . wait a minute. . .  
  
You almost fall off the last step and your huge, stunned gaze darts left, and right, and then straight down the empty hallway in front of you. Because, you aren't _in_ your damn basement anymore. You're back in Mount Massive, and you have no idea where the hell you are.  
  
"Oh, shit. Oh, _shit_. . !" You croak under your breath. "Okay, gotta hide. Um. . ?"  
  
You pick a direction at random and just start running. Crumbling stone walls seem to pop up without warning through the gloom, making you veer and stumble like some drunken fool to avoid crashing into them. The thick scents of damp and mildew stick inside your lungs, and. . . it feels like you're still in the basement of the asylum -?  
  
Which is unpleasantly confirmed when you plunge right into icy, ankle-deep water after rounding another corner. But that means the generator room should be around here, right? And Mark. You have to find Mark. . .  
  
Eventually, you have to slow your pace. Pins and knives are jabbing into your stomach, and you feel like you might be sick if you don't stop and catch your breath. It doesn't sound like Chris Walker is chasing you, anymore. . . though, you can never be too careful. You turn into a room with its door already busted from its hinges, and you scan what you can see through the shadows for any immediate danger.  
  
Hmm. Looks clear. . . except, hey. Isn't that an electrical box? After you and Mark find the two gas pumps, don't you have to flip a breaker switch to reset the power? Wow, you might have actually found something important!  
  
But how the hell are you going to find Mark?  
  
You hurry and find a dark, quiet place to. . . well, sit down and collect your rapidly spiraling thoughts, for one. There is a pocket of darkness opposite the electrical box that also offers a decent view of the doorway, so you slump against the wet, cold stone and run shaking hands over your face.  
  
All right, all right. You're okay. You aren't being followed. Get it together. . .  
  
As your heart rate gradually begins to even out, you realize that you hear something out in the hall. Something trying very, very hard to creep silently through the water. Now, you don't know if the Variants really care about making noise. Probably not. What do they have to be afraid of down here? Unless. . . they sometimes attack each other? Anything is possible, you guess. . . but it still doesn't seem right.  
  
Someone pokes their head through the doorway. A muttered: "About damn time!" is all it takes for you to jump to your feet, relief crashing over you so hard that it nearly knocks you down again.  
  
"Mark?" You whisper, as you step back out into the open.  
  
He whirls around, dark eyes wide behind his glasses. "[Name]? Oh, man. . ."  
  
He takes an automatic step closer, expression impossibly warm, and you sure as hell don't need any more encouragement than that. The two of you meet somewhere in the middle, his arms crushing you against him and your arms tight around his neck. He smells like soft soap and sweat and his embrace is hot and strong and. . . and this feels more like coming home than returning to your own damn house does.  
  
Neither of you say anything. Words. . . aren't really needed, and you think that your points get across pretty well without them.  
  
You don't know how long you stay like that, but you guys both seem to lean apart at the same time. Despite all of the shit that you've been through, he still has this giant smile on his face -healing shiner and scarred bottom lip and everything. The tight stretch across your mouth suggests that you're grinning back. Probably looking equally as stupid, too.  
  
"So. . . come here often?" He jokes.  
  
"Oh, God." You snort, knocking your forehead into his shoulder.  
  
"I'm flattered, but. . . nah. Just Mark is fine. You don't have to call me God."  
  
You would have punched him, but all you end up doing is laughing. It's ridiculous. This whole fucking thing is ridiculous. He squeezes your shoulders, a brief chuckle rumbling from his chest before you guys finally separate.  
  
"That was so lame." You huff at him.  
  
"But it still made you laugh." He winks, and then side-steps you so he can pull the handle next to the breaker box. "I found the other gas pump before coming here." He beams proudly. "The generator should be all set. We just have to turn it on."  
  
It's too surreal. In fact, it almost feels dream-like, in a way that being here never has in the past. Both of you take your time returning to the generator room. You sneak through the halls as if you've been doing this for years, not days. You're quiet. You're alert. You're at the ready for anything. And yet. . . you can still find moments to talk. To make a few more lousy attempts at jokes. And laugh. Somehow, you guys still manage to laugh, and you honestly think that helps more than anything else.  
  
The bizarre feeling of being. . . just so completely detached from your surroundings seems to intensify when you enter the generator room. Because the broken, lifeless bodies of Travis and Rachel are still half-visible in the watery shadows, only. . . now, they have what must be survey notes pinned to their chests.  
  
All of the breath freezes in your lungs, and every stupidly brave promise that you made to yourself some hours earlier bursts through your head, empty words tinged with guilt, mockery. . . and shame.  
  
"It. . . it was us or them, [Name]." Mark says on your left, his voice low and heavy. "They didn't give us a choice."  
  
He's trying to rationalize it, too. Deny, ignore. . . or pretend? None of those options are particularly appealing. Forgetting. . . would be the coward's way out, right? But you would be lying straight through your teeth if you said that you weren't thinking about it. Going by the slight crackle in his last sentence, he is probably thinking along those same lines.  
  
Is he hoping that you will? After all of this is over. . . is he hoping to forget?  
  
"Whether we had one or not, this still bites." You force out through clenched teeth, balled hands shaking down by your sides.  
  
You two keep saying that, but repeating it out loud helps to remind you that. . . fuck. You're pawns in this just as much as Travis and Rachel were. You had to. You had to do it. And you guys are no doubt going to have to do it again. And it sucks. . . but that's all there is to it.  
  
"Come on." Mark mutters. "We should keep moving."  
  
He resets the generator while you recover the miracle Mag-Lite from the room that you vanished from the last night. It's dead, of course, and you reluctantly pop in the only two batteries that you have left. Wordlessly, you give it to Mark just as the generator wheezes and sputters to life. Neither of you talk about Travis or Rachel again. You don't mention the notes, and you guys don't look back when you leave.  
  
While you're climbing the stairs back up to the main lobby, since you still have to head to the security room to open the front doors, you suddenly. . . you don't really know where it comes from, or why you even feel the need to talk about it. . . but you do. You have to get this shit out, and you have to do it now.  
  
"I've used video games as an escape for as long as I can remember." You awkwardly begin. Mark casts you a curious frown, but doesn't interrupt. You continue after a short, unsteady breath. "My dad got me into them when I was really young, you know? Four, maybe. Or five. We would play together on the original Nintendo for hours, but it wasn't until the N64 came out that I started playing things on my own. The Legend of Zelda has always been my favorite." You admit, your face warming as you kick at a loose piece of tile. Mainly so you don't have to look at Mark while you talk.  
  
"But, even still. . . I would always go back to him while he played his games. It was really something that never ceased to amaze me: watching other people play. . . and it never mattered what, either." You shrug, a soft grey haze drifting across your eyes as the scenes take shape inside your head.  
  
They are wonderful. . . and so very, very terrible. They make you ache fiercely for things that were, and things that will never be again.  
  
"First-person shooters were his favorite." You smile again without even realizing. "We were living in a pretty small house then, so the N64 was hooked up in his bedroom, and I. . . I can remember hours and days, and even whole weekends of laying on the mattress next to him. My elbows would be propped open across the game guide that he bought for Turok 2: Seeds of Evil, while he cursed and groaned at the screen whenever those dinosaur soldiers took him out. . . Dammit. I couldn't have been more than eight years old." You draw in another shaky breath, but now that you've started. . . you can't stop.  
  
"After we switched houses, though, those times kind of became few and far between. We moved a whole lot when I was a kid. We didn't have much money, so Dad had to pick up a second job. He and my mom began fighting, almost every night. I started playing games with head phones plugged into the television set, just to drown out the crying and the screaming."  
  
Those were some pretty dark periods in your life. You quickly shake your head and move on, a little ashamed and overwhelming grateful that Mark is staying quiet, being patient, and simply listening. You had no idea that you had so much to say about this. It's actually. . . kind of frightening.  
  
"When I wasn't playing video games to distract myself, I was writing stories about them. I tried so many different ones. . . and so many strange ones." Your lips curve into a tiny smile. "Sometimes the fighting would stop for a few weeks. Sometimes, my parents almost seemed happy with each other. Guess I was too young to realize how miserable both of them actually were. But, the games always helped.  
  
"When we finally moved into the house that we're still in today, I was about twelve. Things were looking up for once. Dad was able to quit his second job and we were back to playing dumb games together on the weekends. . ." Your tongue catches against your teeth. "I can't. . ." You stop, take another breath. "I can't pinpoint when it happened, after that.  
  
"Maybe while I was in high school? But everything started going downhill again. Faster, and even worse then before. My parents were back to fighting. During my sophomore year, Dad had to get another night job. I barely saw him, and when I did, sure, he made time for me and my little brother. . . He spent more time with us then he did with my mom, but. . . but something had changed in him. Something that had to do with my mom. I. . . I even. . . I caught him crying once or twice." You whisper, viciously blinking back the stabbing in your own eyes.  
  
"We stopped playing video games together when I graduated. I was going to the local college and working full-time, and he had his two jobs. . . I still played on my own, but I missed spending that quality time with him. God, I felt it like a fucking toothache that never went away." You kick at one of the computer towers you're passing by without conscious thought.  
  
"Mom. . . she got the call on a Saturday. I was eighteen, and I had just come home from work, and I was trying to finish up some school papers when I heard the front door slam, and her crying downstairs." You swallow. Breathe. Just breathe.  
  
No matter how long, no matter how many years have passed. . . you can still remember that day clearer than any other. And you know that you always will.  
  
"Dad was dead." You choke out. "Mom had been talking to me about getting a divorce just the previous week, and I didn't want to hear about it. Wanted nothing to do with it. And then. . . he had. . . that morning. . ."  
  
You can't say it. You have never said it out loud before, and you just. . . you still can't. It's been six fucking years and the words simply do not exist in your brain. It feels like chewing on glass as you lose your stride. There were no signs. There were no warnings. Or maybe there were.  
  
Maybe you were too blind to see them. Maybe. . . maybe you were too scared to.  
  
"I stopped playing games for almost two years." You croak. "I couldn't do it. I couldn't even look at my system without feeling sick. My mom was out looking for jobs, and I quit college to help out more with the bills. . . and then, my brother started getting into trouble. A lot of fucking trouble. Drugs and bullying other kids at school was just the beginning for him.  
  
"We tried to help him, and then he was thrown in jail. He's been in and out ever since, but that first time Mom caught him with needles in his room. . ." You ignore the echoes of their screaming in your head and drop your lifeless gaze to your high tops. "I didn't know what to do. I was. . . I was scared, and I didn't want to get involved. So I started playing video games again. I had to. I had to do something to get my head away from how fucking awful everything had become.  
  
"Years passed, and it felt like I was just going through the motions, you know? I was still living with my mother. I hadn't bothered to go back to school. Stupid brother was in jail, and then Mom started dating this jerk. . . It got really messy." You rub at your watering eyes again as Mark leads the way into the security room. "I was lost and angry and miserable and I was so fucking _bored_ with _everything_. I had no idea what I was doing with myself. I still don't." You grin bitterly. "And I probably never will. But. . . hey, know what happens next?"  
  
And, here, you can feel your expression marginally soften. Can feel the tense pains that had been bunching up your limbs and gnawing down your spine start to relax, though a blurry wave of exhaustion is quick to settle in their vacant pockets.  
  
Mark, who hasn't said one single word since you began, is still watching you with the most attention that you have ever been given in your entire life. Brows furrowed. Mouth tightly set. His eyes dark and so full of grief and compassion that you nearly burst into tears right on the spot.  
  
"What happens next?" He quietly asks you.  
  
"I found your channel. By a total accident." And you force out a laugh, because you have to. Because you'll splinter apart if you don't, and you can't let him see you lose control again. "I'm not good with this shit, if you can't tell. And I don't want to freak you out anymore by saying something creepy, but I. . . I want you to know how thankful I am for what you do." You shove your hands into your pockets, blushing dully. "It's not the same, and it won't ever be the same with what I had with my dad. . . but it still helps. And I wanted you to know that, too. So. . . there." You huff. "That's my sob story."  
  
And you feel like putting your fist through a fucking wall.  
  
Poor Mark. He tries to reply, his eyes soft and impossibly sad. . . when his stare travels past your shoulder and widens with sudden panic.  
  
"Are you all right?" You frown.  
  
"Get down -!" He shouts, making a wild grab for your arm. You have about two seconds to register the horror on his face before something jabs into your neck, and the security office swirls together and fades away.  
  
You are likely unconscious before you hit the ground. And, when you wake up again. . . however many minutes or hours later, you're a little groggy, but not in any pain. You're also in a prison cell, which is not exactly the happiest revelation as you stumble to your feet. Man, what the fuck happened? Did someone. . . did someone drug you? Your fingers brush the side of your neck, and you do feel a weird, raised bump crusted with a small amount of blood.  
  
So, if you were drugged. . . who the hell did it? And where is Mark?  
  
You trip over to the closed metal door, deftly ignoring the blood smeared across the wall that reads _Rest in Peace_ as you squint out through the murky glass. You don't want to yell or call out for him, in case that other patients are close by. . .  
  
A shadow blurs past the small window and you jump back. It appears again after another second, and you exhale heavily at the sight of a familiar pair of glasses. The door swings open eventually, Mark standing on the other side. He's wearing a rather grim smile, but his eyes are shadowed with something else.  
  
Oh, that's right. The last time that you guys were together, you pretty much bared your heart and soul out to him, didn't you? How embarrassing. Man. . . why the hell did you do that? It didn't change anything. . . did it? Well, you guess that you feel a little lighter. You don't know. It's strange. You've never shared with anyone, what you shared with him.  
  
"[Name]." He begins, and a hot wash of guilt spills down your back.  
  
"No, no. Look. Don't even. . . don't bother, okay?" You shake your head as you join him out in the cell block. "You don't have to say anything about what I told you before. I just had to get it off my chest, I think. It's. . . it's not important in the grand scheme of things, anyway. Like, weren't we just drugged and tossed into prison?"  
  
He frowns at you. "Not important? You can't say that. You can't tell me all of those. . . those private, meaningful things, and then say that they aren't important. _Everything_ that you have to say is important, okay? We don't have to talk about it, but I. . . I want you to know that I understand." He lifts his hand, hesitates, and then rests its warm, reassuring weight against your upper arm. "I know what it's like to lose someone like that. I know what it's like to lose one of the staples that. . . that keeps the threads of your life together." He tries for a pained smile, and then. . .  
  
"I understand, [Name]." He gently repeats. "And you're not alone."  
  
You grimace, your own smile pinned to the walls of your throat. You have no idea how to respond to that. You wouldn't even know where to start.  
  
The two of you stare at each other for a few silent moments. It almost. . . it almost feels like something has shifted between you. Though. . . you couldn't say what it was to begin with, let alone what it could be turning into. All you know is that something is definitely different as his fingers sink through the fabric of your t-shirt.  
  
"Ready to meet the Naked Twins?" He suddenly asks.  
  
You're sure that you must be making the weirdest face -the change in topic is so jarring. But you can't say that you aren't grateful for something else to think about. That stuff about your father. . . talking about it once was enough. You have to get your head on straight, now.  
  
Maybe, someday. . . you could try it again. And, maybe. . . he could tell you about his dad, too. Maybe. Someday.  
  
"Excuse me?" You blink. "Naked Twins?"  
  
"Oh, yeah." Mark nods. He gives your shoulder a long, lingering squeeze before he drops his arm. "We were drugged by an insane priest who wants us to worship the Walrider like a God, and now, we're going to have some very ugly, and very naked men following us!"  
  
"Well. . . shit." You pause. "At least we won't get bored."  
  
He huffs, and he's trying. He is trying so damn hard. "Bored? Here? Come on, Shepard. The fun never ends at Mount Massive."  
  
The corners of your lips twitch upward. "I believe it, Garrus. Lead the way."  
  
You can't say it enough, but you seriously  have no idea what you would do without this kid. You're afraid to think. . . of what might happen to this friendship-thing you guys have, once all of this is over.  
  
You don't. . . you don't know if you can honestly go back to the way things were. You might not be alone, now. . . but you will be. You always end up alone. And you know that you don't handle it very well.


	9. Hell and Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only way out is down the drain.

The Naked Twins are just that. Big, ugly, and naked -exactly how Mark described them. Thankfully, a locked metal gate stands between you two and the both of them as they nicely decide on how they are going to split you up and eat you. Of course, you aren't really interested in hanging around long enough to talk, so you and Mark quickly head down the stairs and deeper into the dank, foul-smelling cell block.  
  
There are a handful of patients here. Most of them stitched together into these awful, monster-like abominations. Drugged up or just Off-in-the-Big-Nowhere Insane. They don't seem to even notice that you're here. Though. . . you do pass a body impaled into the stone wall. A kid -another boy your age, actually. Burnt, gaping sockets where his eyes used to be and dark skin covered in bloated purple lacerations.  
  
Stapled against his chest is a survey note. Mark gives it a glance, sadly shakes his head, and keeps going. It looks like there might be something else in his pocket, though, and you think. . . as much as you don't want to. . .  
  
Holding your breath, you approach the kid and pull out two batteries from his front pocket. Sorry, buddy. Really, you are. . .  
  
You bite your lip as you return to Mark. He gives you a slight, sympathetic smile, and then extends a hand to usher you into an unlocked cell near the end of the row.  
  
"There's a gap in the wall that we can fit through." He says.  
  
"When do the Twins start their chasing?" You wonder, slipping awkwardly between the stone, and wincing when your shoes _thud_ down heavily on the pipes behind the cell. The air is hot and thick back here. You are already having trouble catching your breath as Mark slides in next to you.  
  
"I want to say, soon. . . But I can't quite remember." He admits. He points up to the ledge not too far above your heads, indicating that you have to climb. "We'll see them coming, I know that much."  
  
"Or smell them, probably."  
  
"No kidding." He snorts. "Let me go first, because, I think. . ." He gives you the Mag-Lite before he grips the edge of the upper floor, and then lifts himself up just enough to clear his head over the cement.  
  
He lets go almost instantly as soon as he gets a glimpse of whatever is up there. And, for a panicked second, you believe for sure that he is going to fall and smack his head or something.  
  
So, what's more important? Mark or the flashlight?  
  
You drop the light and stretch out your arms. If he were _actually_ falling, you both would have crashed to the ground. Thankfully, he only loses his balance as his feet catch on the pipes. But you're still not going anywhere, and he tips right back into you with a pained grunt.  
  
Or that pained grunt could have been yours. It probably was, to be honest. This kid is eighty percent muscle and it has already been established that, if he isn't Superman, than you sure as hell aren't. His landing nearly snaps your arms off at the elbows. And. . . if anyone was wondering, that last twenty percent is split into halves: he is also ten percent unruly hair and ten percent goofy smile.  
  
"Oh, hey." Mark manages to gasp out, turning his head. "You caught me." He sounds surprised, blinking at you as he straightens up.  
  
"Well, you know. Beating up monsters with flashlights, catching heroes in certain distress. . ." You wince as you flex your arms out, but the soreness isn't any worse than anything else that you're feeling. "I'm a woman of many talents, my friend."  
  
You don't think that you've said anything strange, and yet he doesn't answer. Weird. You grab the Mag-Lite and look up at him with a frown, wondering if what he saw up there was really that bad. When your squinting eyes meet his, he rubs a hand over the back of his neck and averts his gaze. You are. . . wow. Saying that you're stunned would be kind of an understatement. Then you see the flush of red crawling up his neck and darkening his face as he quickly attempts to flatten his hair.  
  
Oh, that's. . . what? Is Mark _blushing_. . ? What the hell? That makes even less sense. You shake your head, convinced that the shadows must be playing tricks on you. Markiplier, blushing. . . right. Not because of you, no way.  
  
"Anyways, yeah." He roughly clears his throat. ". . .thanks for not letting me crack my skull open. I sort of had this feeling that something was up there, but it still surprised me when I saw them."  
  
"Uh. . . them?" Your frown deepens. "Is that a non-violent them, or a should we be looking for a new way to go before they serve us up with fava beans and a nice Chianti, them? Because most of the cells in here were locked."  
  
He glances towards the hole in the ceiling again and shrugs. "As far as I know, we should be okay. There are three or four pretty spaced-out guys up there, but I'm pretty confident that they left Miles alone." He suddenly chuckles. "Nice reference, there."  
  
Grinning, you open your mouth just as a scratchy, unsettling giggle drifts down from the second level. Followed by a sharp _smack_ of a hand against flesh, and then a muffled sob. Despite feeling the wet heat from the piping system. . . you are suddenly freezing in the faint, curling steam, and your hand locked around the Mag-Lite is slick with sweat.  
  
Yep, not grinning anymore.  
  
"Let's not drag our heels and make friends with the locals, okay?" You gulp. "I never thought that I'd say this. . . but can we go somewhere else in the asylum, please?"  
  
"That sounds like a very smart idea." Mark agrees.  
  
"I was due to come up with one, eventually."  
  
It's surprisingly difficult to navigate around the patients, though, considering the fact that you two don't want to draw even more attention to yourselves. If you can help it. Once you climb up through the jagged hole and get the hell away from the two guys. . . performing some kind of scary blood ritual on a very dead body, you and Mark slip through a shadowed hall and carefully balance across a ledge where the floor has completely fallen away. It's draining and nerve-wracking, and you almost miss the sign smeared in drying red on the far wall because you are too busy looking behind you.  
  
"God always provides a way." Mark slowly reads. "Follow the blood. . . hey! I remember this part." He nods at a weird looking hall to your left, with grated steel floors and bright yellow lights. "Into the decontamination chamber we go, my dear. The blood trails are supposed to lead us to the exit."  
  
You glance at the bloodied words, and then eye the sealed room warily. "Yeah. . . it's that _supposed to_ part that has me worried, buddy."  
  
"I'm always worried in this place." He admits with a touch of sarcasm. It does little to hide the actual concern lurking underneath his flip tone, though.  
  
". . .likewise." You mutter.  
  
The chamber seals the both of you in as soon as you step inside. It releases some sort of chemical into the air and vacuums it right back out again before unlocking its doors. The process is quick. . . but strange. You're guessing that whatever you breathed in through those vents was not conducive to your survival. Is anything in this asylum? Really?  
  
Heavy silence and at least two flights of stairs greet you on the other side. You guys have no choice but to go up, though you do manage to unearth a pair of batteries from the debris at the bottom. Which is a nice stroke of luck -for once. Or maybe still breathing by this point is lucky, too.  
  
The only thing that greets you and Mark at the top is a lone man next to a bucket of. . . oh. You hope that's red paint. You really hope that is thick red paint in his pail and all over his hands as he smears it across the wall. Since there is also a dead guard in here with you. . . shit. It's not paint, is it? Awesome.  
  
_Down the drain_ -is what the patient keeps whispering, scratching his nails into the peeling plaster. _The only way out is down the drain_.  
  
It's also what he decided to write with his sloshing bucket of blood, and the text seems to angle towards another hole gouged straight through the floor. How does that even happen?  
  
You and Mark approach and cautiously look down. Another positive: the corridors are fairly well-lit in these parts, so you don't have to waste your limited supply of batteries for the Mag. It might not last, but you have to take what we can get, you know?  
  
"See anything?" He asks you, brows furrowed.  
  
You take a knee and squint deeper into the oily yellow gloom. ". . .more blood. What a surprise. And. . . the locked door to another decontamination chamber, but that's it."  
  
"Okay. Down the drain it is, then." He crouches next to you, takes a breath, and drops.  
  
You only hesitate for a fraction of a second before you follow after him. Sure, it might not have been far enough to do any real damage, but you're still falling from about eight feet up onto solid concrete. It's still going to hurt. And it does. Stinging pain shoots through your ankles when you hit the ground, and you fight back an awkward grimace as you straighten up again.  
  
Mark is already peering around the corner into a nearby. . . holding area, maybe? You join him in the entrance and, while two of the dingy cells in the small room are empty, one is not. And it isn't an asylum patient huddling there, in the darkest corner -their legs pulled tight to their chest as they gently rock: back and forth, back and forth. . .  
  
It's yet another kid. Shredded clothes, shredded nails. . . his hair mostly torn out and bloodied sores all over his scalp and face.  
  
A twenty-ton weight sinks to the bottom of your stomach at the sight.  
  
"Ah, fuck." Mark mutters. "Hey. . . kid?" He quietly calls out. "Hey, are you all right? Do you want some help?"  
  
You lean against his arm and bite your lip. It doesn't even look like the boy heard him. He just keeps rocking. How long has he been in here? If you guys miss your seven night mark. . . how long are you kept in Mount Massive, period? Forever? Is this poor kid what your futures will look like if you don't get out?  
  
No. No, you _will_ get out. And, at the very least. . . you are sure as hell going to get Mark out. The world needs him much more than it needs. . . well, you. That's just the way that it is.  
  
Mark approaches the boy in the cell and, reluctantly, you trail a few steps behind. While he goes to the solid steel bars, you stop by the computer desk and rummage through the drawers. Nothing, nothing, papers. . . and a battery. Okay, three spares is a decent start. . .  
  
"[Name]."  
  
You pocket your find and step up next to Mark. "Has he said anything?" You ask, not wanting to get too close to the cell. Just in case. "There weren't any keys on the desk. I don't know how we'd be able to spring him from this."  
  
Mark shakes his head, his handsome features creased with aching sympathy. "Not yet. Maybe, we could. . ?"  
  
"No. No, no, no, no."  
  
The two of you exchange frowns, and then return your gazes to the kid. He stopped rocking, but now his blank, glassy eyes are staring back at you. Or through you. He. . . isn't quite here. Not that you can blame him.  
  
"No, no, no. Can't get out. Can't let me out." He says, and his voice is a rasp of sandpaper grinding against his throat. "Have to stay to keep her safe. Have to stay, have to stay. . . Keep her safe. Please, please. . . just keep her safe." A trickle of dark tears leaks from one of his infected eyes.  
  
"Keep who safe?" Mark wonders softly. "What happened?"  
  
The kid whimpers. "My Holly. My Holly. . . they took her from me. I held her. . . and she was gone. We were so close. We were so close!" A tight, gasping sob is choked from his lungs, and that. . . that is what pure hopelessness sounds like.  
  
You have never heard such a horrifying noise before. Not the rabid shrieks in this place or the crying patients or. . . anything. Nothing this terrible. Because that is a raw, utterly broken sound with absolutely nothing left to live for.  
  
Strong, sweaty fingers slip through yours. You can't look at Mark, you can't tear your attention away from this kid without hearing the rest of the story. . . but you grip his hand back just as fiercely, and you can feel an icy tremor of fear run through you both.  
  
"They told me that they could save her." The boy continues weakly, as he begins to rock again. "That they could bring her back, but. . . I couldn't. . . be with her. Couldn't see her anymore. They told me. . . I had to stay." He whispers. "I have to stay here to keep my Holly safe, and I will, I always will. . .my Holly. . ." And he buries his ruined face in his knees and cries.  
  
Nothing is said until you guys have left him and the holding area behind.  
  
"Shit." Mark eventually breaks the depressing silence. He pushes his glasses up and rubs at his bloodshot eyes, which probably would have been easier without the flashlight. . . but he still won't let go of your hand. "Who's to say if those assholes kept their word, you know? His girlfriend might still be dead, and he promised to stay trapped in this hell for nothing."  
  
You head towards a doorway with an EXIT sign buzzing red and ominous over the top. You stare up at it, an eerie sense of calm stealing over you for the briefest moment. "Maybe they did win, in a way. Maybe they reached the end, but she still died." You say quietly. "And, maybe. . . he was given a choice: go back to the real world without her. . . or stay here, while she went back instead."  
  
It's just a guess. . . but it makes an unpleasant kind of sense. No matter what happens, whether you two win or not. . . you doubt that either of you are going to come out of this happy. Or without some serious issues.  
  
Mark is staring at you, his expression suddenly hard and difficult to read. "Stop it." He says.  
  
You shoot him a frown, trying to untangle your fingers. You have to scale a crooked table that is blocking the path to keep going, and you can't climb over while you're holding hands.  
  
"Stop what?" You glance down in confusion as his grip on you tightens, still refusing to unglue your palms.  
  
"Whatever you're thinking about. . . just, stop it. We're both getting out of this asylum, okay? We're both going to get out, and we're both going to go home." He says, and tugs you away -away from the table and right back into his personal space, his hand leaving yours. . . only to wrap itself securely around your upper arm.  
  
Your heart jumps, and your pulse trips through your veins as his brown eyes hold you immobile. God, you are standing a little too close together and his hand is really hot against your skin, and you have never seen him look so serious before. . .  
  
"No one is staying behind, do you understand?" His low voice hums with perfect clarity down your spine, and you feel a rush of heat spill violently across your face.  
  
"What if something happens?" You mumble. Because something will. You know it. You have been trying not to imagine worst-case scenarios. . . but you can't help it. You're a realist and you guys have to be ready. One of you might have to. . .  
  
"Nothing is going to fucking happen!" He whispers loudly, as if stricken by the mere thought. He sticks the Mag-Lite into his back pocket so he can give you a gentle shake. "Look, if something does. . . which it won't, and they give you a choice. . . you have to promise me that you will leave. No matter what, [Name]. You promise  me that you will leave this goddamn nightmare behind."  
  
What? You can't. . . you can't do that. His eyes are dark and sharp, with too many emotions swirling through them that it's making you dizzy to look at him. He's close, still too damn close, and you just can't deal with this macho bullshit right now. You can't deal with this at all. Doesn't he realize how important he is? How  much he means to millions of people out there?  
  
"No." You shake your head and step back. You didn't even realize that you were shivering until his hands were no longer on your shoulders to support you. "You can't. You can't  ask me to promise you something that stupid, because I won't fucking do it."  
  
He opens his mouth, his growing frustration obvious as he tries to approach you again. But you take another step towards the table, shaking your head even faster.  
  
"No! Dammit, Mark. If we can reach the end, and they give me some kind of fucked up option to save your life in exchange for mine, you don't think that I'd take it? I wouldn't even fucking hesitate!"  
  
"And you think that I would?" He snaps. "You honestly think that I wouldn't do the same goddamn thing, if our positions were reversed? I wouldn't let anyone  give their life for mine, _especially_ not someone that I -!" He cuts himself off with a swear, raking his hands through his hair.  
  
Tension and electricity crackles between you. God-dammit, you don't want to fight! Fighting with Mark is just. . .  that is literally the last thing that you would ever want. You guys can't do this. You have to put this aside until the moment to decide is here.  
  
Otherwise. . . you'll drive each other off into oblivion.  
  
"You know what?" You lean against the table and cross your arms. A tired sigh buckles your posture as your pulse gradually slows to normal. "We are actually arguing about which one of us gets to die for the other, when we have no idea if what happened to that kid and his partner is going to happen to us."  
  
Mark stares at you, and then. . . he walks over and sits down next to you at the edge of the debris pile. And the two of you stay there in the empty, bloody hallway for a long time. In the silence. Beneath the dull yellow lights. Your trembling, exhausted bodies touching from ankles to shoulders, afraid to move away. Afraid of what is still to come.  
  
"I'm sorry." He eventually says, his voice worn thin.  
  
"Yeah. I am, too." You whisper.  
  
You hesitate after you drop your arms, but. . . awkwardly, you reach out and fit your hand over his. "Four more nights."  
  
"Four more nights." He nods, his gaze falling to your linked fingers. "We'll be all right, [Name]. We're. . . we're going to get through this, and we're going to be fine."  
  
No. No, you really won't be. And you are both miserably aware of it by this point, like a black rain cloud hovering just out of your line of sight. Sooner or later. . . the storm is going to hit, and it's going to destroy everything.  
  
"I know." You give him a small smile when he looks up again. "We'll be fine."  
  
He smiles back, and it hurts to see how sad and dark the expression leaves his face.


	10. Made of Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things only seem to be getting worse. And more complicated.

It's a little clumsy, trying to fit back into your usual rhythm. But you and Mark do find it, somehow. Less with words and more with actions, quick grins, a reassuring hand on his arm and a guiding palm lingering along your waist. You guys have been in the asylum for too long, this night, and you think that you're both fairly worried about being returned to your world without making much progress.  
  
The short corridor that you were in leads to more locked rooms and another security booth, both of which are guarded by patrolling patients who, Mark warns, will definitely give chase if you aren't careful. The first guy is simple enough to avoid, granted that he is kind of preoccupied with splattering a guard into a vicious, bloody pulp with a wooden plank. The other one is, unfortunately, smarter. And more aware of his surroundings. You and Mark have to duck inside a pair of lockers and wait for him to leave before you can sneak into the security booth.  
  
You anxiously scan the monitors while Mark hits a giant red button amidst the other dials and switches across the counter. Now, usually, those giant red buttons are bad news, but this one thankfully unlocks the decontamination chamber in the previous hallway.  
  
Follow the blood, remember? The creepy messages keep telling you to follow the blood, so you two double back through the chamber and the new hall that you enter has a crude red arrow pointing deeper into the darkness. Real encouraging, of course. But you have no other ways to go.  
  
You almost forgot about the Naked Twins. When you round the corner and encounter a dead end, there they are. Watching both of you from behind another locked metal gate, calmly discussing that, yes, one will have Mark's liver and tongue, while the other appears to fixate on your eyes and fingers.  
  
"This is. . . I don't know. Is this flattering?" You nudge Mark in the side as you take cover in the shadows, next to a headless guard lost in an ocean of his own thick, crimson blood. "I feel like I should thank them before I tell them to fuck off or something."  
  
He snorts, flashing you a pearly white smirk. "No, Shepard. It's not flattering. Someone wants to gouge out your eyeballs and then serve them in a delicate white wine sauce? That's one of those bad things that we talked about."  
  
You roll said eyeballs and punch him in the arm. "Okay, smart ass. What do we do, now? We can't go backwards, and that gate is hopefully going to stay locked for most of the foreseeable future."  
  
Mark, ever the gentleman, punches you in response. "As a matter of fact, we are going to be shimmying along the edge of the windows and climbing up behind them." He says, his voice mockingly bright. "Don't say that we never do anything fun, now."  
  
For a moment, a very small, very startling moment -if you may add- you're struck with the desire to lean in just a bit more. Your heads are nearly bowed together as you speak. . . and it wouldn't take much to. . . wow. No. No way. You're not supposed to be thinking like that.  
  
You quickly turn and cast a glance behind you, your ears turning pink as you exhale a long, rattling breath. You guys can't afford distractions, and that would be a huge one. It would also make this worse because. . . you know. Feelings. And feelings never cease to ruin everything.  
  
. . .shit. Your priorities might need some re-evaluating.  
  
"Shimmying. Windows." You repeat, copying his exaggerated cheer. "Avoiding the dinner menu. Yep, sounds like our kind of thing, buddy. Let's go."  
  
And go, you do. Though, there is a small lip of stone that you can shift your feet along while you move past the gate, so it isn't really as terrifying as you were assuming that it would be. But there are still other things that you can think of that would be more fun, since it's one misstep and you tumble straight down into the nothing and likely die.  
  
Oh, boy. Why did you look down? You never want to look down. . .  
  
Eventually, you guys make it up and through another open window on the other side. And no sign of where the Twins went, either. More locked rooms. More computers. One more battery and even more blood puddles. You're about to follow a second arrow painted on the wall when Mark tugs on your arm.  
  
"Hang on, there's just a locked door around that corner." He tells you. "Shocking, huh? But we need to go through this busted decontamination chamber and find a key card for it." He pauses, making a weird face. "Damn. These are the stupid things that I can remember? Man, I'm practically useless."  
  
"Yes, you _are_ practically useless -with your prior knowledge of this game and your nice, enjoyable company." You deadpan. "So, remind me why haven't I left you behind?"  
  
"Because I'm smart, and strong, and handsome. . . and you'd miss me too much?" He counts the reasons on his fingers and scrunches up his nose. "Hey, wait a minute. You think that my company is enjoyable?" He shoots you a sly smile. "Well, that might be one of the sweetest things that you've ever said to me, Shep."  
  
Dear Lord. You bump past him and head into the broken chamber first, shaking your head and attempting to ignore the faint blush that you hope he didn't see. "I don't make a habit out of being sweet, Garrus. Savor the moment and let's move on, shall we?"  
  
"Oh, I am definitely savoring it." You hear him murmur behind you, and you're just glad that he can't hear the sudden _thwack_ of your heart punching into your ribs.  
  
You end up on a quiet, darkened walkway above a second cell block. There are only a handful of patients mulling around, and you warily peer through the links in the fence that separate both of you from them. Mark is aiming for the other side of the walkway, about twenty feet from your position that stops at a dead body slumped against the wall. He seems to know exactly what he's doing, so you stay back and wait, just. . . watching. . .  
  
You clamp a sudden hand over your mouth and fall back into the shadows, eyes widening with panic.  
  
Chris Walker is directly below. And not only that, but he is yanking somebody by the hair along behind him. The remaining patients scatter into the corners when he stops beneath the lights, as if they're afraid of the giant Variant, too. At least some of them have some fucking sense. He growls out something that you can't determine, and then tosses his victim to the floor in front of him.  
  
It's hard to tell, but. . . oh. Oh, this one's a girl. Your fingers tighten over your mouth, all of the the warmth draining from your limbs. The scene is like a fucking car wreck that you just can't stop looking at. Dirty and missing her shirt, blossoms of blue and black like paint splotches across her flesh. She rises weakly to her knees, crying for a kid called Pierre, you think, with a stream of blood dripping from her chin.  
  
The Variant just watches her miserable attempt to escape, a laugh rumbling from his chest that you can feel boiling through your head in painful, subsonic waves. He allows her to crawl nearly to safety before he wraps one meaty fist around her ankle and drags her back into the middle of the cement, right where everyone can see.  
  
You don't hear Mark hesitate beside you. You don't even hear him telling you that you have to go, _now_ -he found the key card and he doesn't want that monster to accidentally spot either of you. What you do hear when you finally turn away is a splitting _crack_ of a head being ripped from its neck, and a piercing silence in its wake.  
  
And then, Chris  Walker abruptly hurls her twisted skull at the metal fencing -at the exact same place that you were staring through not ten fucking minutes ago. You curse in disbelief -how the hell did he manage to see you? -as Mark takes your hand. You guys sprint out of the cell block as fast as possible.  
  
"Shit!" You swear again. "Mark, do you feel that?"  
  
Because, those goddamn bugs are back. Well, no. Not literal bugs, but that incredibly unpleasant, creepy-crawling sensation jabbing at your toes and fingertips. Almost sharp enough to hurt, and yet not quite. Which can only mean one thing.  
  
"Just keep running!" He tells you, bringing you both through the sparking decontamination chamber, around the corner, and only pausing to swipe the key card through your locked destination before you hurry on.  
  
"We're not going to be able to talk to each other once we get sent back!" You grip his hand tighter as you run onto a different walkway. Empty, but eerie and distant voices echoing like ghosts in the cold air around you. "Those survey jerks are going to block my access to Youtube again!"  
  
This catches his attention, and it also sends a wave of dread washing over you. For however long that you're stuck back in the real world, you won't be able to do anything but watch his videos. You two won't be able to communicate by any means.  
  
You'll be home, though, won't you? And you'll be safe, right? Except. . . those things don't mean much to you anymore, not without him.  
  
Mark slows down in the middle of the corridor as the wind whips outside. Bullets of rain slam against the shattered windows. Thunder growls, and the lightning flashes bright and stunning across the shadows, illuminating his frustrated expression as he spins around.  
  
"God-dammit!" He scowls, and you're already starting to fade away. "I _hate_ not being able to see you without fearing for our goddamn lives! I _hate_ being separated this like and I just. . . I fucking hate this. I hate this so much." His voice cracks. "When all of this is over, we're going out for sushi, okay?"  
  
You. . . you don't. . . what? Did you hear that right?  
  
You blink at him, a surge of overwhelming affection igniting fireworks through your veins. And, of course, the only thing stupid that you can think to say to this declaration is: "But. . . I don't like sushi."  
  
At least it makes him laugh. "God, I don't care." He pulls you closer just as your arms and legs begin to vanish. "I'll take you anywhere that you could possibly want to go. Out for steaks, Disney World, the freakin' _Moon_. . . I'll take you anywhere, [Name]." He brushes a wayward strand of hair back from your face.  
  
"Because there is no Vakarian without Shepard, either."  
  
Oh. . . fuck. Hearing him say those things. . . it just makes this so much harder to bear. His dark brown eyes refuse to leave yours as the world glows, and the last image burned into your head is his small, stubborn smile before static fills your ears, and everything is gone. . .  
  
Only, it's not. You're back in that strange, blinding white nothing-place, either made of pure white light or just endless white walls. Your heart constricts as you squint against the glare, hoping beyond all hope that you'll see him, or hear him. . . or anything. Please, just once more. You have to see him. . .  
  
"Dad?" You whisper, taking a small step forward. Trying to, anyways, but you still don't know if you can move through this space. Wherever you are. "Dad. . . it's [Name]. Are you. . . are you here?"  
  
_"I'm always here, kiddo. I haven't gone anywhere."_  
  
And there he is -that tall, wavering outline on the horizon, offering out his hand. Tears spring to your eyes as you struggle to reach for him, your very soul aching for the chance to glimpse his face again.  
  
"But. . . you did." You tell him, and something inside you crumbles and dies. "You did leave. You. . . you left me all alone. Why did you do that?" You can barely get the words out as you begin to cry. "I don't understand."  
  
_"You're never alone. Not ever. I might not be there. . . physically, kid, but I would never leave you. You have to trust me."_  
  
Oh, you want to. And you do -of course, you do. . .  
  
"I miss you." You sniff. Heartbroken can't even come close to describing how you feel right now. You don't even know _how_ you feel. . . except that it hurts. This hurts so much that you can hardly stand it.  
  
_"I know. I miss you, too. But you're not finished yet. You have to wake up, [Name]. You have to. . ."_  
  
Once more, the figure melts into the light, and you're blinking hazy, burning eyes open with an _I love you_ stuck like a piece of shrapnel in your throat. Shapes and colors take form, and gradually clear as the clouds drift away. You don't know if it's still the same day as when you left. You don't know what freakin' time it is or where you are or. . .  
  
Wait. Your surroundings do look. . . familiar, actually. Massive bare trees. Deserted neighborhood. Dull grey sunshine and snow crunching underneath your  high tops.  
  
You are walking down the street in front of your house, and you are freezing cold. Your toes are numb and throbbing in your shoes and you can't feel your goddamn fingers and. . . Hell, you're not even wearing a jacket! What are you doing out here? You don't know, You don't. . . can't, remember, and you can't think past the ice shards imbedded into your flesh as your body gives a violent, heaving shudder.  
  
Warm. Have to get warm. Have to get inside.  
  
The next twenty minutes or the next two hours or however long it fucking takes for you to stumble home is a dizzying, miserable blur. You strip out of your bloodied clothes after you climb up to your room, your hands fumbling, crystal-sharp pains lancing through your ears and rooting deep inside your joints. You are so cold, so tired. . .  
  
You're glad that your mom isn't here to see you like this. You're glad that no one is. You. . . you feel like you're splitting at the edges. A spider-web of cracks across a fucking mirror, and there isn't enough duct tape in the whole damn world to put the broken pieces back together. And. . . and the only one who could ever understand how that feels is hundreds of miles away from you right now.  
  
With an agonizing slowness, you pull on sweats and your favorite old baseball hoodie, and then collapse into your bed. You can't relax, and you can't stop shivering. What. . . what is that place? The place that you go to before you come back? Why is your dad there? Why can't you ever see him?  
  
And. . . does Mark experience something like it, too? Or does it just mean that you're losing your mind? You must be. That white place. . . it's frightening, but it's also. . . comforting. You don't know why. You wish that you could have stayed there a little longer.  
  
Your heavy, stinging eyelids droop as you tug your blankets over your head, and the warm relief of darkness presses in. You don't have the strength to cry anymore. In fact, the only thing that you can do is pretty much fall unconscious. And when you sleep, you dream.  
  
Apparently, you were screaming again. You don't think that you're out for more than a few hours before you're being shaken awake, and you instinctively try and fight back against whatever is touching you.  
  
". . ? [Name]!"  
  
You twist your head, scrambling away from grabbing hands and yelling voices until you hit something solid. A cell wall? A Variant?  
  
"Mark!" You wheeze, eyes flying open. . .  
  
And it's your mother, perched on the end of your bed, her expression a mixture of alarm and concern. "Honey, it was just a nightmare." She tries to reassure you. "Who's Mark? It's only me and your step-dad downstairs, [Name]. . ."  
  
You run your hands over your face, wearily slumping into your mountain of pillows. "Um, no one. He's. . . he's no one. From my dream." You mutter. "And I'm sorry about the yelling. It's probably that really strong cough syrup messing with my head." You lie, avoiding her careful stare.  
  
"Maybe you should see someone about this?" She suggests.  
  
". . .what kind of someone?" Your brows crease with suspicion. "A doctor?"  
  
She fidgets with your blankets, tries to fix them and smooth them out. Now avoiding your  stare as your watching turns into mild glaring. It certainly isn't rocket science to figure out the direction that this conversation is taking. "You mean a shrink, don't you?"  
  
"Well, it seemed to help you after your father. . ."  
  
"No. No, it didn't help me at all." You interrupt. Anger congeals underneath your skin at her mentioning him to you. Not now. Not ever. "I had to go because my actual doctor was afraid that I was depressed. . . or a suicide risk." That word sticks to your teeth, makes your stomach turn over. Have you ever said it out loud before?  
  
"The drugs that they gave me didn't work, either." You continue, your rasping voice laced with bitterness. "Going back is the last resort of all desperate measures, and I'm not going to talk to anyone until then. So. . . no."  
  
Mom gives you a defeated look. "Okay, okay. It's just. . . you haven't been acting like yourself lately -and I know that you're sick. . . but it also feels like this is more than that." She sighs. "I want you to be happy, [Name]. And you're not."  
  
You. . . you are honestly surprised that she was able to notice. You've been almost perfect at hiding your feelings since you were fourteen years-old. Smirks and sarcastic comments help, but. . . you guess that you've been slipping. Slipping a lot, actually, if your mother needs to physically come out and tell you this.  
  
"Everyone has bad weeks." You shrug, hoping to deflect any more questions. "I'm not unhappy, I'm fine. You don't have to worry."  
  
She nods, clearly unsatisfied, but gets up to leave. "If you say so." She shakes her head. "Dinner will be ready in about an hour, if you're hungry." And she goes, closing the door behind her, and the heavy _click_ of the wood into the frame sounds like. . .  
  
Like panicked nails scraping against cement.  
Like a head being ruthlessly torn from its torso.  
Like a weapon cocking before it blows someone away.  
  
You cover your ears and draw your legs up to your chest, squeezing your eyes shut. But the noises don't stop, and they keep growing louder, and louder. . .  
  
. . .they're never going to go away, are they?  
  
When you feel almost human again, you manage to pull yourself together long enough to join your mom and her husband in the dining room for something to eat. You're not hungry, but you know that you have to try. Mom talks about her day at work. Roger talks about his day, too. As per usual, you sort of sit there and poke at your vegetables and speak only when you're being spoken to.  
  
". . .tickets to that. . . that video game thing." Mom is saying. "You know, the one that you're always complaining is sold out?"  
  
Your head jerks up at the magic words: _video games_. "What? What thing?" You clear your throat, a hint of honest life sparking through your deadened limbs.  
  
Mom grins. God, she looks so proud of herself as she slides a plain white envelope across the table. "It was going to be an early birthday present -a really early one, considering your birthday is ten months away- but I want you to have it now. The convention is sometime in August, I think?"  
  
No way. . .  
  
It takes an embarrassing minute for you to keep your hands from trembling, and when you finally manage to wrestle the envelope open. . . two tickets to PAX East flutter onto your lap.  
  
"This is. . . unbelievable." You sputter. "Thank you, thank you so much. I completely forgot about looking, and. . . yeah, this is awesome. Thanks, mom."  
  
You had no idea that she was actually listening when you mentioned the convention -let alone would remember it. You've wanted to go to one for ages, but the timing was never right with work or school, or you didn't have the extra money. . . And you would be so over the fucking moon about this if. . . if you knew. . .  
  
If you knew that you were going to be around in six months to enjoy it.  
  
But you give the biggest smile that can fit on your face as you tuck the tickets back into the envelope, pushing those bleak thoughts far out of your head. And dinner resumes as normal, with your mother thinking that everything is going to be okay.  
  
You pretend for her sake that it will be.


	11. Always and Never

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You should probably be somewhat concerned about the continued decline of your mental state.

You aren't really worried about losing your job, but you do have your share of bills to pay. And no hours means no money to afford said bills, so you decide that you should probably head back in to the store in the morning. It's a gamble either way -because not only will your mother be home tomorrow, but you also split the afternoon shift with Heather. Dealing with people in general is far from one of your priorities, and yet. . .  
  
Might as well make some cash while doing it, right? So you call your boss after dinner and let him know what's going on. More or less. The weather channel says that your town should expect another snow storm in the next two or three days, too. Bossman tells you not to push yourself if you're still not feeling better, and if there are more than six inches of snow on the ground, to just stay home again.  
  
You thank him before you hang up, though you're hoping that this storm won't be as vicious as the last one. You hate shoveling out the driveway, and. . . well, you really don't want to wake up from Mount Massive dazed and wandering through a blizzard, either. Because that would suck worse than what happened to you earlier -and that was pretty bad.  
  
It's almost midnight when you climb out of the shower and return to your bedroom, and taped to your laptop screen, waiting ever-so-patiently on your desk, is another fucking survey note. Great. Not that you're even a little surprised at its appearance by this point.  
  
Sighing, you toss your towel into the laundry basket and turn away from it. And then. . . you turn back. And away. And back. But ignoring the stupid paper isn't going to make it up and disappear. You should just get it over with. . .  
  
Your thoughts flash to Mark as you tear the page from your computer. Something twists through your chest, an anxious kind of warmth that you aren't used to feeling. _Because there is no Vakarian without Shepard, either_.  
  
A tiny smile flickers across your face, and that strange, comforting warmth stays with you, even when you sit down on your bed and open up the latest news from your nightmare realm.  
  
_Congratulations on defying the odds and making it through night three of our survey! That is quite the accomplishment, guests, and we are certainly proud to call your our participants. We do hope that these exciting, mildly dangerous situations that we're placing you in are giving you a lot to think about. Probably more than you deserve._  
          _It goes without saying, but from here on out, the nights are going to be longer, and the obstacles that you and your partner will face will be even greater than before. The weaker competition is gradually being thinned, and soon, only the best of the best will remain in a race to the finish -to escape Mount Massive Asylum._  
         _Will you make it there in time, valued guests? Or, are you slowly beginning to realize that you have less to live for than you thought?_  
    _. . .do you enjoy being all alone?_  
  
God-dammit. You let out a tense breath. Are these fucking things customized for each person after a certain night? They have to be. . . Otherwise, how would these jerks know exactly which words to write to make you. . . to make you feel so. . ?  
  
You know that they're just playing these awful head games with you, but what the notes say. . . it's hard not to let them get to you, even a little bit, when they clearly illustrate every deep-seeded emotional fear that you've ever had. Assholes.  
  
Swearing under your breath, you rip up the page and burn the remnants with a matchstick. Leaving only a curling pile of grayish ash on your desk, and watching the wisps of smoke drift away into nothing with hard, bloodshot eyes.  
  
Sleeping is difficult that night. But. . .  you're growing uncomfortably use to the tossing and the turning and the sudden noises waking you up in cold sweats. You think about Mark. You think about PAX East. And you dream about fingers around your throat and a heavy brick in your hands as the cool, pale light of dawn eventually creeps in underneath your curtains.  
  
No snow yet. Guess that's a good thing, since the roads should be okay to drive on. You drag yourself over to your closet and throw on the first things you can find that are clean and. . . mostly wrinkle-free. A band t-shirt and jeans, and then a hoodie beneath your army jacket. You're gone before anyone wakes up, blasting your ears out to your favorite music in your car, and then pulling into the empty parking lot next to the store by nine o'clock.  
  
The routine is dull and automatic. You barely realize that you're even doing these things anymore, given that this has been your entire life for the last two years. Around nine thirty or so, you open the store and take your usual chair up at the front by the register. The presence of the computer behind you digs into your side like an infected splinter. You haven't bothered to try logging onto Youtube since you've been back. You might be able to access it from here, but. . . right now, you aren't sure if that's the smartest idea.  
  
Doesn't stop you from wondering about Mark, though. You keep thinking about what he said, just before the two of you returned. He was serious, you know that much. But. . . being friends with you and hanging out when this is over. . . You don't see how you could make that work. You guys live as far apart in the United States as you can get, and you're honestly afraid to think about _anything_ happening after the seventh night. You really are.  
  
One day at a time. Just. . . one day at a time. If you want to stay grounded, you can't think about the future any more than you have to. . .  
  
The morning is long and uneventful, and, as expected: boring. you help out some incredibly clueless customers here and there until about eleven-ish, when someone that you don't recognize walks into the store. This in of itself is not surprising. Hell, you work in retail -new people just discovering the store's out of the way location is fairly normal.  
  
But, something about this guy. . . you don't know. You notice him immediately from behind your inventory logs as soon as he rounds the corner -all smooth gait and straight shoulders and tall, lean figure striking an imposing path down the aisle. He might be in his thirties or early forties, with slicked hair and an impeccable dark blazer above pressed dark slacks.  
  
You recognize that he's probably good-looking, though his polite expression is also fairly cold. You couldn't have watched him for more than seven seconds, tops, but his blue eyes are suddenly cutting through yours over the edge of your papers. Like he knew that you had been staring the entire time. _Dammit._ So much for pretending that you hadn't seen him.  
  
"May I help you today, sir?" You automatically ask, setting your things down.  
  
"Well, that depends." He smiles as he approaches the counter, but. . . it's kind of stiff, and it makes his eyes seem frozen. Utterly devoid of any emotion. "You're Miss [Last Name], aren't you? [Full Name]?"  
  
A silent alarm pings off somewhere in your brain. You never tell the customers who you are unless they actually care enough to ask, and you and Heather aren't required to wear name tags. So, how could a complete stranger. . ?  
  
You bite your tongue and force out something a little less sarcastic than your standard fare. You are at work, after all. You even have to treat the weird ones with some professional courtesy.  
  
"I suppose that would depend on who is inquiring, sir." You deadpan.  
  
He chuckles. "Ah, yes. They did tell me that you had quite the sense of humor, Miss [Last Name]. I like that in an individual, especially in an attractive young woman."  
  
Um. . . what? You have no idea what the hell is going on here, but you don't like it. You give the man a strange look while he reaches into his blazer, and he produces a leather wallet that likely costs more than your weekly salary.  
  
"Now, I rarely make personal visits like this." He continues, and a slim white business card appears between his fingers. "In fact, this might be the first time that I've ever made an exception to our rules. I like to wait until after each survey is finished before approaching any possible candidates. It's. . . easier, that way." He pauses casually, like this topic is no more interesting than the fucking weather. "It's also less messy, and I _don't_ like getting my hands dirty, Miss [Last Name]."  
  
He smiles again, and this one is positively ruthless. All white teeth and lips stretched tight, like a shark scenting blood in the water. "So. . . consider yourself a very special case, sweetheart. I haven't been this impressed by one of our participants in quite a while."  
  
You stare at him. You literally can't do anything else. Huge eyes. Blank expression. Completely fucking dumbfounded as the color drains from your face.  
  
"Speechless? I understand." The man slides the business card across the counter and drums his trimmed nails for a brief moment on the plastic. "If you survive through the survey -which I'm truly hoping that you do- please, don't hesitate to give us a call. You have that. . . look." He arches an eyebrow, possibly aiming for charming? And doing little more than making you feel cold and awkward and very unsettled.  
  
"You'd be perfect." He assures you.  
  
". . .what?" Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. "What. . . look?"  
  
You can't. . . think. You don't know how this is. . . Who the fuck _is_ this guy? How does he tie into what's going on with you and Mark? Is he orchestrating this entire thing? Seriously, what the fuck is this?  
  
He considers you with those cool blue eyes. It feels like you're drowning inside them, and not in a good way.  
  
"The look that all of us there have." He says calmly. "You aren't alone, [Name]. Remember that." And then he turns around and leaves the store, without another word.  
  
You watch him climb into a gleaming black sports car and disappear down the street, and as soon as you're alone. . . you nearly fall into the register as all of the strength evaporates from your limbs. God, you're. . . you're fucking shaking. You can't believe that just happened. You can't believe _any_ of that just happened! How. . . if that man is from the game -?  
  
The store swims, and a tangled mess of words and images tumble through your brain that don't make the smallest amount of sense. Your hands tense up and dig into the sides of the counter, and your gaze drops to the business card. Pristine white card stock with glittering black print.  
  
It says **MURKOFF CORPORATION** through the middle. . . and that's it. Aside from the logo with two blue building-type structures in a square. Then, when you turn it over. . .  
  
"Jeremy Blaire?" You frown. And there is a phone number printed underneath his name. What the. . ? You remember Mark mentioning that Murkoff Corp. was what the company who bought Mount Massive was called, and that is just. . . no.  
  
You don't understand what any of that was. And you don't want to. Blaire said that you have the perfect look. . . for what? What was he talking about? Why in the _hell_ would you ever want to get in touch with the freaks who did this to you and Mark?  
  
Without another thought, you toss the card into the trash with a scowl. . . and a shudder. Forgetting about this whole thing is probably your best option. You can't handle any more weirdness at the moment. You're barely keeping together as it is! You sure as hell don't need to add creepy video game characters giving you fucking business cards while you're at work to your growing list of issues. . .  
  
You nearly bolt out the back door when Heather clocks in twenty minutes later. But you're trying to convince society that you are _not_ about to jump off the high dive into the great empty void, so you force yourself to stay and talk and pretend that you're doing somewhat better than yesterday. Thankfully, she doesn't ask any questions.  
  
Around noon, you let her know that you're going to take a break. Despite the ten degree weather outside, you linger next to your car -hood up, fists jammed into your pockets- and try to take slow, steadying breaths. It feels like you're swallowing chunks of steel as the breeze attacks your lungs, but the fresh air really does help clear some of the clouds from your mind. Even if the frigid temperature also gives you a headache.  
  
You stamp your boots through the fluffy snow banks as you return to the door, a little frozen, sure, but a lot less prone to having a panic attack than before. When you step back into the store supply room, though, all of the lights blow out. As much as you should be expecting this kind of shit to happen. . . there is no way to brace yourself for it when there aren't any goddamn directions on how this skipping realities thing works.  
  
Your stomach lurches as dull yellowish bulbs flicker on, and the sudden, disjointed scene that you're thrown into has the floor spinning violently beneath your high tops.  
  
A small room. Another security booth? The walls trembling. Flashing red lights. A shrill alarm that makes you instantly clap your hands over your ears. What the fuck is going on? Your eyes jump to the first signs of movement so fast, it makes your temples feel like they're being squeezed through a fucking vice.  
  
Chris Walker is locked inside of a decontamination chamber at the front of the booth, his huge frame smashing over and over into the dividing glass. One more slam and the window shatters under his strength, and you're flinching into some nearby shelves as a burst of sour-copper panic fills your mouth.  
  
"Oh, shit. Oh, shit!" You squeak.  
  
"[Name]!" Someone yells, and they sound partly shocked and partly terrified out of their damn mind. "Holy shit -turn around! Turn the fuck around and get up here!"  
  
_Mark_.  
  
You follow the command without conscious thought, your wide gaze latching onto the open vent above the desk behind you -and Mark. Wonderful, unbelievable Mark, leaning as far from the edge that the metal will permit without falling out, his arms outstretched and his hands reaching for yours.  
  
"My hero." You breathe, and then you're running towards the desk as the entire back wall explodes in shower of plaster and broken computers pieces. A few stray sparks catch on your clothes, sizzling and stinging like fucking fire ants -but all you can do is ignore them.  
  
All you can do is ignore absolutely everything that isn't Mark, his lopsided glasses and his desperate eyes, a gash trickling blood down the left side of his brow and his impossibly hot, sweating fingers when they latch around your wrists. You can safely admit that you have never been so scared in your whole fucking life than in those seconds, kicking your feet out and struggling to climb up as the world quakes apart over your shoulders.  
  
Oh, God. Oh, please. You don't want to die; you don't want to die!  
  
Rivers of perspiration drip off your face, and you can see shiny droplets sliding down Mark's nose and the side of his neck, mixing with the blood from his cut as he swears and screams at the Variant almost at your heels. You have no idea how he does it, but that kid. . . Man, he is such a fucking liar. He told you that he wasn't Superman, but there is no way that anyone _other_ than Superman could have yanked you into the vent at the very last possible moment.  
  
"Come on!" He urges, and then the both of you are scrambling through the tiny space and smacking your heads into the ceiling every foot or so while Chris Walker howls underneath you, his gigantic fists punching upwards into the metal. His erratic raging makes everything creak and groan and screech -and it honestly sounds like the world is coming to a fucking end as the vent wobbles dangerously beneath your hands and knees.  
  
. . .and you really hope that it doesn't.  
  
"Shit, shit, shit. . !" You curse, wincing when you slip and tumble into Mark.  
  
"Oof -!" He knocks against the wall and your nails dig into the back of his shirt as you guys just manage to clear the corner. . . and collapse.  
  
The silence that ensues rings inside your head like relentless, deafening church bells. You must not be above the security room anymore? Otherwise, Chris Walker would still be trying to. . . Fucking hell. . .  
  
You lay there, panting and shivering, your pulse drumming a frantic staccato rhythm along your windpipe. A pained groan slips out of the body squished beside you, and Mark slowly turns himself until he is sprawled out on his back -with you dead weight and mostly on top of him, your face resting against his chest.  
  
"Are you. . . okay?" He whispers. You feel his arms wrap around you, solid and secure. His racing heart is a thunderstorm against your ear.  
  
". . .yeah, thanks." You mumble, not wanting to leave the safety of his embrace -and certainly not caring that you're clinging to him just as tightly.  
  
You can't believe that it's only taken the last two or three days for you to forget that you aren't supposed to like people touching you. Seriously, what's that about? You guess. . . you guess that Mark is the exception. Maybe. Apparently.  
  
"And you?" You ask him. "Okay?"  
  
"Mmph." He grunts. "That goddamn vent grate fell open right on my head. I think it cut somewhere above my eye. . . haven't had the chance to check how bad it is." He lifts a palm and presses it against his brow, grimacing when he glimpses the redness on his flesh. "Nothing broken, though."  
  
"Head injuries bleed a lot, but it looked pretty shallow." You gently prop your chin up on his shirt so you can see him better. "Um. . . do we still have the Mag-Lite?"  
  
"I tossed it up here, first. It might have rolled out that way." He points towards the hole about four feet from your right, then exhales a huge, wavering breath. "Fuck, [Name]. . ." He runs his hands over his face, beneath his glasses to rub at his eyes before he fixes them. "That was so. . . and I thought that. . ."  
  
You wait for him to continue, until his dark eyes eventually drop to yours and something. . . something thickens in the air between you. An unexpected, prickling intensity that makes you feel uncomfortable. . . and yet, not.  
  
"I really thought that was it." Mark rasps. "I had no idea where you were, and I knew that I had to go. . . but when I looked down again and fucking saw you there, with that goddamn monster. . ." A bolt of electricity drags down your spine. You nearly jump out of your skin at the sensation, but. . . it was just him: the heavy heat of his hand on your lower back.  
  
A nervous, twisting blend of other nameless. . . unexplainable emotions explode through your veins.  
  
"I have never been so frightened." He admits, and he stares at you like. . . like you don't even know, because no one has ever looked at you this way before.  
  
Like you matter -and not only that. . . but, like you're _important_. Like you honestly _mean_ something to him. And you don't. . . know what to do with that.  
  
". . .me, neither." You whisper, your face burning underneath his unblinking eyes. And you still are. You are so fucking scared.  
  
Because you don't know what this _thing_ is between you anymore, and, whatever it is. . . You don't want to lose it. Because you don't know if you guys are going to make it out of here alive. Because you don't know how you're going to live with yourself if you can't.  
  
You're the first to look away after a few seconds. You have to. And, as if it were mutually agreed upon. . . the two of you carefully attempt to disentangle your sore, aching limbs from one another and crawl to the end of the vent. After scouting the new hallway beneath you, you climb down through the hole and land on the cement.  
  
Mark picks up the Mag-Lite. You check behind, feeling weird and jumpy and incredibly off-balance. Like the whole fucking world is tilted. And you guys don't have the time to talk, either, because the bolted door closest to you gives a warning _crack_ in its frame, and Chris Walker can be heard calling you _pigs_ and _whores_ from the other side.  
  
"You ready for round two, Garrus?" You flash him a strained, lopsided smile.  
  
Because. . .  
  
Yep. Fuck it. You are a complete pro at compartmentalizing your already screwed-up life. There is no way in hell that you would still be here if you weren't. After what happened to your father, and everything that's happening now. . . your dry sense of humor is the only thing that you have to rely on to keep yourself sane and calm. Even more so when everything else just wants to fall apart. The rest gets locked up and forced into little corners for later.  
  
Much later.  
  
Mark grins back, wide and toothy with that bruise above his eye and an angry streak of red-bright blood against his face, and. . . you have literally never seen anyone looks so unfairly attractive before. God-dammit.  
  
"You go, I go, Shepard." He promises.  
  
. . .and the Variant rips the door from its hinges just as the two of you link hands and bolt down the hall.


	12. Head Like a Hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Falling with. . . not too much style.

Well, you and Mark don't get very far into your escape. Actually, you guys get about six yards. One of the rooms ahead is on fire, but it looks easy enough to avoid.  The hazy gray smoke and the flames have yet to migrate out of the broken window and into the hallway, so. . .  You can go around it, right? Hopefully. . ?  
  
That would be a no. It is not easy at all to avoid. You have two seconds to understand why Mark is yanking back on your arm and yelling at you to _stop, stop! We have to fucking stop because something is going to explode. . !_  
  
When something really does explode. Scorching heat, intense pain, and then coldness rushing in as you're knocked off your feet, gasping and choking and falling, falling. You can't even breathe, let alone scream. Everything happens too fast. You have no clue where Mark is, or where _you_ are or what the hell is going on. . . and you land on. . . warmth? Wetness? Yeah -it's also unpleasantly squishy and, sure, it minimized what would have been a plunge to your instant death to a simple plummet that likely adds up to over two hundred bruises, and possibly some fractured ribs. . .  
  
But you still land on _dead fucking bodies_ and, holy shit, the smell. . . and there are at least ten or twenty and dozens of miscellaneous parts all heaped together in one bloody pile at the bottom of this. . . place. . .  
  
God. Oh, God. This is the worst fucking thing.  
  
In the short time that it takes for awareness to sink in, Mark is slamming down onto someone who looks more like a survey participant than a patient right next to you, a startled groan tearing from his chest.  
  
"Man. . . are we dead?" He moans. "What the hell is this -?" He raises a hand and squints at something twisted around his fingers. Something that you can't quite see. . . "FUCK!" He screeches, and you are giving a yelp and tumbling backwards off of the oozing collection when he flings a chunk of knotted red intestines in your direction.  
  
"What the fuck -?! I don't want them, either!" And your back cracks against the cement, accompanied by a vivid flash of pain ripping up your spine.  
  
As if this couldn't get any better, but the ground down here is also ankle-deep liquid. It might be dirty water or bodily fluids or. . . or some disgusting mixture of both soaking through your clothes right now.  
  
Fuck. Just. . . fuck everything. Your stomach clenches as you wobble onto your knees, your entire body trembling and in some degree of pain.  
  
Mark is swallowed up by the ocean of corpses for a moment, and then emerges with a trail of yellowish slime across his forehead and a horrible expression on his face. Well, at least he still has his glasses. Though. . . you're thinking that he might not be very grateful for that as he scrambles over to where you're shivering against the wall. He grimaces like even the smallest of movements cause him unbearable discomfort -which they probably do.  
  
Yours do, anyways. How many levels did you guys fall? Had to be at least two. . . God, you don't know.  
  
You and Mark take a very, very long moment to piece some sanity back together, huddling in the clouded gloom of what appears to be another cell block and attempting to scrub and scrape off as much gore from yourselves as possible. The shock is gone. Now? You are pretty much numb. Totally and completely unplugged. Maybe nearing hysteria? That would hardly be surprising.  
  
"I can't believe that I laughed." Mark shakes his head. "When Miles fell in the game, yeah. It was fucking gross -but I still laughed." He flicks a pulpy, brownish mass from your shoulder and scrunches his face in revulsion. "Why the hell did I do that?"  
  
"Got me, buddy." You shrug. "But. . . I kind of feel like laughing, too." You admit, glancing up at him with this sharp, uncontrollable twitch at the corner of your mouth.  
  
He blinks at you, eyes huge in the shadows. "Are you serious?"  
  
You blink back at him, and. . . you see it: a sudden tug at his lips, and that's all it takes. You both know that you're probably laughing to keep from. . . well. The other possibilities, but the two of you dissolve into helpless snorts and giggles -the sounds no doubt tinged with a faint note of mania if anyone else were listening.  
  
"Holy shit." Mark hiccups. "This is so fucked up. We're really fucked up, [Name]."  
  
"Fucked up and alive, though." You unthinkingly press two fingers to the bottom of his frames and slide them back over the bridge of his nose, and then use his shoulder to help yourself climb to your feet. "And we have to be okay with that, because. . . we are gonna be fucked up over this for a pretty long time."  
  
Something haunted lingers inside of his eyes, and it hits you right then, that. . . that you aren't the only one suffering through this. Even if it feels like it when you return home. You're not the only one struggling with insomnia and nightmares and. . . and with simply trying to keep your fucking head above the surface. God -if you could just _see_ each other when you go back. . . because you _know_ that would help. You guys could talk and process this one on one, without having to worry about being killed if you're not paying attention. There has to be some way. . .  
  
"What's the plan, now, bud?" You hold out your hand for him, attempting to ignore the slight tremor through both of you when he grabs on.  
  
"Um. . ." Mark makes another strained expression as he stands up. "Let me gather my bearings. . . and not throw up on my shoes. Hang on."  
  
While he checks out your surroundings, you approach the pile again with your hand over your nose. Where is that flashlight? You're not going to get very far without it and, oh. There it is. You try not to gag as you shove what are possibly the remains of vital organs into the water and off of the Mag-Lite. Which is now covered in who the hell _wants_ to know: something black and viscous that sticks to your fingers like rubber cement.  
  
"I am never going to feel clean again." You mutter, scowling, and wiping the lens with the hem of your filthy t-shirt. "Never. . . ever again."  
  
And, naturally, you don't even have five minutes to cobble together any kind of action to take, because there is suddenly someone approaching your location and definitely not trying to be quiet about it. Yeah. . . shit. Those quaking footsteps wouldn't belong to anyone else.  
  
You stumble over to Mark and pull on his arm to get his attention. His flesh jumps beneath your palm, his head jerking back to look at you. Wherever he was just now. . . it must have been at least a million miles away.  
  
"What? What?" He turns his hand and grips your wrist in return, voice bright with panic.  
  
"We have to hide!" You hiss. "Are any of these cells unlocked?"  
  
He leads you into the first padded room and you guys cram underneath the rusted metal bed frame, elbows digging into ribs and skulls knocking together. . . and an extreme amount of pushing and disgruntled swearing as you attempt to stay out of sight. But, as soon as you two catch a glimpse of Chris Walker lumbering past the open doorway. . .  
  
You freeze. And Mark sucks in a short breath. You are pressed together from ankles to shoulders and, somehow, pressing even closer, your right hand lost inside of his left while you watch the Variant pace. Up and back, up and back. . . across the entire cell block and grumbling, but not giving you one goddamn opportunity to sneak by him.  
  
"I remember this part." Mark eventually breathes, his lips accidentally grazing your ear. Hot breath spills down your neck and raises goosebumps all over your skin, something you desperately attempt _not_ to focus on in your precarious position.  
  
"Chris Walker is going to be on our ass for almost the entire time that we're down here. We have to. . . get through two more cell blocks before we hit the showers, and then. . . something about the sewers?" He pauses. "I'm sure there were sewers."  
  
You can barely see him in the darkness, but you are very, awkwardly aware of how the both of you are practically on top of one another. Again. It's almost like these tiny single beds weren't meant for harboring two people beneath them.  
  
"What would a horror game be without a sewer level?" You mumble. "Figures."  
  
You feel him chuckle more than you hear him, a low, comforting vibration in his chest as he lightly bumps his head against yours. "Exactly what I said, Shep. But there are pipes that we have to drain, and then. . . um. I'll probably remember more once we get there. I'm a bit. . . distracted, at the moment." He murmurs.  
  
"Sure. Of course." You whisper, because you are so damn nervous and wound with ridiculous tension that you have to say something. "And the getting there part should be great, right? I'm looking forward to that."  
  
. . .oh, dear. It registers about twenty seconds later: his last, bewildering sentence that just about kissed the side of your jaw. Um, what? _Distracted?_ He honestly can't mean by _you_ , can he -? You scowl, and your face flushes so violently that you are shocked that the Variant doesn't notice you in here.  
  
Dammit. You are really in trouble, aren't you?  
  
Another silent minute passes. Walker lumbers off to the left. . . and then a distortion of sound blows up against the concrete like mortar shells being dropped. You flinch, your head smacking into the top of the frame as someone screams.  
  
"Run, Alice!" A boy frantically yells. "Keep going, and don't you dare look back!"  
  
There is a horrible squelching noise that follows the command. And then. . . a garbled, bubbling shout, choked off by a second scream. This one, from a girl.  
  
"Dammit, Sam!" She is crying so hard, you can barely understand her. "No! I'm not leaving you behind -I'm not!" Hobbling across the cell block are two figures, one supporting the other with a pronounced limp, but it's too dark to see much else.  
  
They are really struggling, though. It is. . . agonizing to watch. Especially since you and Mark can't. . . do anything. Or won't, maybe. You guys could hurry out there and, what? You can't fight the Variants, no matter how many there are of you. You can't. . . Ah, shit. The girl keeps losing her footing with her partner draped over her shoulder, and he is barely making the effort to help. You don't know if the kid is even conscious.  
  
You feel guilt like a fleeting, arctic wind through your system as you wait. Cold and bitter for a moment, and then nothing. Because they have to escape on their own, and you have to abide by those fucking rules. Survival of the fittest, right? You and Mark against the world, and that includes the other participants. You don't have the time to worry about anyone other than yourselves.  
  
Fingers twine around yours, and you exhale a painful breath. "When. . . when Walker chases after them. . ." You swallow. "We have to go."  
  
"Up the stairs." Mark immediately replies. "There should be some to our left. We have to reach the second level before anyone catches us." A thin current of distress is audible in his tone, but his directions are adamant.  
  
Your brains must be functioning on nearly the same wavelength: just protect each other and survive. At all costs. You squeeze his hand to let him know that you've heard, and the quiet returns. . .  
  
"SAM!" Alice wails, and you and Mark are scrambling out from underneath the bed in the exact second that the Variant stalks past in the opposite direction, dragging the girl by the leg as she weeps and beats her fists uselessly into the cement. "Let me GO! You fucking asshole -LET ME GO!" She shrieks. "SAMMY!"  
  
You duck your head, grimacing at her wild, frightened sobs. Mark runs from the cell and you are right on his heels, adrenaline lighting fires inside your bloodstream. Stairs, stairs; where the hell are the stairs? You see wobbly blobs of black and yellow, and blood, and bodies. . . It's fucking awful to admit this, but you. . . you're glad that girl is putting up such a strong fight. Otherwise, your footfalls slapping through the puddles would have alerted every soul in a two-mile radius of a free meal.  
  
Mark finds them near the back of the area -a metal staircase that you attempt to slow your pace on, until you two hit the upper floor and drop into crouches along the walkway. But you don't talk, and you don't stop. He leads you through even in almost total darkness, his stride never faltering, his confidence never wavering. God, this kid. . . he blows your freakin' mind. You are so lucky to have him. You are so lucky to be his friend.  
  
Somehow, both of you make it to the edge of the cell block unscathed. You hear Chris Walker below, and the girl he took has gone ominously silent. You pause near the gate that opens into the hall out of here, daring to spare one last glance, just to see if she made it. . .  
  
Oh, _shit_.  How the hell did he -?  
  
Your heart nails itself to the roof of your mouth, and you gawk at the Variant leering at you from the other side of another gate. This one, thankfully, shut and locked, but still way too close for any sort of comfort. He has the panting girl by the neck, shoved into the metal and leaving a bruised, grid-like pattern across her battered face.  
  
Her eyes are green. Dark green and dulled from the pain. One of them is swollen closed, and yet. . . a spark of hope flickers through them when she glimpses you. "Heh. . . help." She wheezes. ". . . p-please -?"  
  
Your attention flickers between her and the towering monster behind her. You. . . you don't speak. You wouldn't know what to say, anyways. An apology really doesn't seem like it would do a fucking thing right now. God- _dammit_. . .  
  
Slowly, you back away from the gate. . . and then you turn and flee before you can watch the last of that hopeful light die in her big green eyes. Mark is waiting at the corner, his own gaze fixed on the scene. When you give him the flashlight and latch onto his hand, he pins you with a look so intense that it stops you in your tracks.  
  
"I am _never_ going to let anything like that happen to you." He whispers harshly. "Not fucking ever, [Name]."  
  
"Right back at yah." You tell him, your voice just as fierce. "You go, I go -remember? That's what you said to me, and it works both ways."  
  
"I would never forget."  
  
"You better not."  
  
His lips twist into a cheeky. hard-edged smile, and. . . there is absolutely nothing funny about it. When you flash him a bitter one in return, he doesn't laugh. Neither of you do. Not this time. You round the corner, leaning heavily against each other while that girl, Alice, releases one final scream behind you. And silence.  
  
There is a broken gate up ahead. Mark climbs under first, and motions for you to join him after a strained moment. Decent lighting. No patients. He pushes open a squeaky gate into a new cell block. . . or an old one? In the middle of the floor is pool of blood and the body of a girl with a survey note. When you pass her broken corpse, you feel a stirring of recognition, because. . . Oh, right. Chris Walker ripped her head from her shoulders the last night that you were here.  
  
And then he tossed it at you while you were on the second level.  
  
Mark doesn't waste any time in this area. There are a few patients wandering listlessly from their cells upon closer inspection, and one in particular is actually. . . approaching you? No, that can't be. . . Holy shit, he is. And you have no idea how he can see either of you, because his eyes are wrapped with faded leather strips. And his arms bound in a strait-jacket,  
  
"Silky, so silky." A rasping giggle drifts from his mouth. "I want to tell you a secret." He can't be more than six feet away, now. "Let me tell you a secret."  
  
"Oh, um. . . no, thanks." You shake your head, all of the hairs raising along the back of your neck. "I'm not interested in any secrets."  
  
Mark glares at the patient, but there is a nervous energy crackling around him as the man continues to follow you. "Fucking weirdo." He grumbles. "I always hated this guy in the game. He's so. . . he's just so fucking weird. _So_ weird."  Mark picks up his pace, holds your hand tighter, and you can feel a surge of his anxiety bleeding through the air between you.  
  
"He didn't hurt Miles, but that doesn't mean a whole lot to me anymore. This is like the game, but it's also not like it at all. Who the fuck knows what other random shit might happen if we interact with these people?" He scowls. "Don't talk to him, [Name]. Don't encourage him."  
  
You weren't. . . expecting that. Damn. This guy really bothers him, doesn't he? Sure, he's creepy, but Chris Walker still frightens you more than one overly friendly patient in a strait-jacket. Not Mark, though. Whatever his reasons are for that. . . well, you trust him. Implicitly.  
  
"No problem, buddy." You mumble, fighting the itch to check behind you. "Maybe, if we ignore him. . ?"  
  
"He doesn't leave." Mark grits his jaw. "As long as we're in this cell block, he's going to dodge our fucking shadows every step of the way." A tiny shiver ripples down his spine. "The sooner we get out of here won't be soon enough. Come on. . ."  
  
He waves at the stacked table tower that you're supposed to scale to the next floor, and gently urges you to go first this time. "Don't worry." He assures you. "I've got your back, Shep."  
  
You nod, take a deep breath, and start climbing. The pieces are steady underneath your weight, and you aren't really worried about falling or whatever, because the only other person in your life that you have ever felt this safe with was your father. And when you hear Mark start mouthing off at the weird, stalking patient, you can't help the grin that spreads across your face. So much for not encouraging him, right?  
  
"And you, yah stupid asshole. You stay the fuck there, understand?" Mark threatens, and you can easily picture him brandishing the flashlight out like a sword. "I am _not_ in the best mood and I _don't_ fucking like you. You stay there, and maybe I won't decide that I need to split your skull open with my Mag."  
  
"Your sweet talk needs a little work, Garrus." You call down to him. "You aren't going to win anyone over like that."  
  
"What?" And there's a pause, a heavy _thud_ of sneakers hitting the metal behind you as you grapple for the final ledge. "Sweet talk?" His voice is suddenly a darkened purr right by the side of your face. "Oh. . . trust me, you haven't heard anything yet, darling." He pauses. "Would you like to?"  
  
Your sweating fingers slip, and you almost let go and send you both tumbling to the concrete. "For the love of -! Pick your _moments_ ,  Mark!" You scowl, a furious blush burning the tips of your ears while he laughs. "When I'm _not_ in the middle of struggling to get up an entirely vertical surface would be better, you know. Thanks."  
  
He curses jokingly. "Aw, man. Where's the enjoyment in that?"  
  
"Well, I don't know about you, but I enjoy not dying."  
  
"Fine, fine." He snorts. "Why do you have to be so reasonable?"  
  
"Hey, you can grill me on my stunning personality all that you want to _after_ we get the hell away from here. Also -I can't focus when you're breathing down my neck. Please step back."  
  
He wiggles his eyebrows at you as you attempt to glare at him. "It's because I'm so handsome and distracting, right?"  
  
"Fucking hell. . ."  
  
"HA! I knew it."  
  
Somehow, you guys get to the top. Don't ask how, because you have no idea. The creepy patient in the strait-jacket thankfully stays down below, though he does crane his head back and act as if he can actually track your progress with his covered eyes. It's incredibly unnerving. Does he even _have_ any eyes?  
  
The only trouble that you two run into, since the men up here are mostly locked in their cells and inconsolable, is a seemingly unconscious patient slumped over in his chair. He is, in fact, not unconscious -merely laying in wait for a set of hapless partners who aren't expecting him to jump up and grab at their throats.  
  
But Mark warns you before it happens. And, maybe. . . maybe, it's not a good thing that you get so much pleasure out of bringing the abomination down, first. Mark goes for his neck just as he leaps to his feet, his face a contorted mass of burns and raging snarls. They grapple for one, heart-stopping moment, and then Mark gains the upper hand by shoving the patient into the broken railing.  
  
As soon as you see an opportunity, you take it with no fucking regrets. While the patient is staggering around and Mark is trying to catch his breath, you swing the flashlight into his jaw and teeth and blood spray out in a crimson haze. The patient loses his balance, and over the railing he topples and _cracks_ against the ground, spidery red tendrils oozing out from his mouth and the back of his skull. Dead. Very, absolutely dead.  
  
When you lift a palm without thinking, and Mark immediately slaps you with an exuberant high-five, you know that you guys have crossed one more invisible line.  
  
And you don't think that either of you particularly care by this point.


	13. The Weak Willed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sewers are fun places to explore.

Night Four is. . . well, the last survey note mentioned that the nights were supposed to be getting more difficult to complete, remember? More violent? More grueling? And this one has been. Oh, hell yes, it has been. But you're also not anticipating how much. . . easier it is, in a way. And probably not in the most ideal way, either.  
  
You aren't stupid. It's the desensitization process finally kicking into overdrive. Sure, the pacing is faster and more chaotic, and you and Mark are being stalked by either patients or Chris Walker almost constantly. . . but the gratuitous scenes of death and violence are less shocking. Finding other mangled participants doesn't leave you feeling guilty anymore. You're sad. . . and yet, not. You are honestly more relieved than anything -relieved that those kids were the ones who lost and that you and Mark are still alive.  
  
Is that terrible for you to think? Yeah, it is. And does that bother you? You. . . you don't think about that part. Because the two of you are going to survive until the very fucking end of this, and you can't afford to feel bad for things that are completely out of your control. It wastes too much energy. Clogs your head with too many emotions that you don't need to deal with on top of everything else.  
  
Hell, as it is, once you and Mark clear the cell blocks and make it down to the showers, even the absurd amount of blood pooling along the tile and splattered on the walls spelling out _Walrider_ with this weird symbol next to its name barely has you batting an eyelid. The only thing that you can relate this feeling of numbness to is like. . . like how soldiers are gradually accustomed to combat. There comes a time when you realize that things simply don't upset you as much as they used to.  
  
And Mark seems to be similarly affected. It's nothing obvious, not really, but just the way he reacts. . . or doesn't react, to certain situations. You guys can exchange more dark humor about your surroundings and your current objectives without. . . Without being worried or frustrated or getting into more arguments about who is going to die for whom -if the survey thing even gets that far. You're still trying not to think about that part, either.  
  
At the edge of the shower stalls is a gaping hole torn into the concrete, exposing a network of rusted, gurgling pipes and slick-wet stone. Mark shines the Mag-Lite down into the hazy depths, and then slides in. "Oh, that's. . ." He recoils, automatically blocking his nose. "Okay. . . gross is an understatement." He shudders. "Hope you like the smell of raw sewage in the morning, Shepard."  
  
"Next to napalm, it's my favorite thing." You wince as you join him, the stench like a slap in the face. Just imagine that a septic truck has spilled its tank out underneath the nice, warm summer sunshine.  
  
"So, the sewers." You begin casually, following the sharp beam of the flashlight ahead. "I believe that you said something about drains. . . or draining, earlier. Are we walking into the shit-flood of the century down here? I mean, I don't usually a make a habit out of exploring places like this."  
  
Mark snorts his laughter. "Yeah, I'd prepare for the worst. And it's great that these survey assholes let us wear the exact same clothes every time, too, without washing them or anything." He ducks beneath a set of thinner pipes and drops another four feet into the gloom. "Chris Walker will be on patrol, though. That's the one thing that we really have to watch out for. He'll just pop up out of goddamn nowhere on yah, and there is no easy way to be quiet with all of these stupid puddles around."  
  
"Awesome. Gotta love a challenge." You huff, clearing the pipes and climbing down after him. "Then what?"  
  
"Uh, valve-things. We have to turn. . . two, I want to say? And they drain the water out of one of the pipes that leads into the male ward." Another angled hole, another drop, and a breath of disturbingly moist air brushes over your flesh when you land beside him.  
  
This is almost as disgusting as falling into that body parts pile was. The remnants of which that you are _still_ trying to clean from your shirt when you have a second, by the way. You even found a piece of a broken jawbone caught in your shoe laces a few minutes ago. Mark, ever helpful, suggested that you keep it and mount it like a trophy on your bedroom wall. At least the comment was lame enough to get you to laugh, and then you threw the jawbone at him for an added bonus. He threw it back and it hit a patient. Good times.  
  
Anyways -that brings the two of you to here. Standing at the mouth of the asylum sewers. Though, the mouth is actually a part of the wall completely ripped away, like someone tried to dig a path straight through the bricks with their bare hands. Damn. You wouldn't be surprised if someone had.  
  
Mark quickly shines the Mag-Lite in each direction before he clicks it off again. You do have four batteries left, but there are some pockets of ghostly light flickering from the ceiling bulbs that should be. . . mostly sufficient. You hope? You guys need to keep a low profile, regardless, given that Chris Walker is going to be lurking through these tunnels. You're looking forward to that.  
  
The tiniest sounds are magnified to the umpteenth power in the tunnels, too, so you and Mark don't talk unless you have to. You just stick close together, hands linked, and slosh as little as you can manage through the murky brown water. Man -it's honestly become so commonplace to hold his hand that you don't even think about it, now. . .  
  
You two round stray corners, see more dead bodies, and end up having to crawl through a small passage to continue onwards. Literally, crawl. On your hands and knees. Fingers submerged in the slimy water and everything. Which is lukewarm, just to make things terrifically worse, and actually adds to the collection of stains on your cargo pants rather than washing any away.  
  
You fight down the urge to gag, and when Mark helps you stand back up again, you nearly knock him over in an attempt to get the hell out of that fucking passage as fast as possible.  
  
"Sorry, buddy." You grumble, cringing as you rub your palms raw against the thighs of your pants. "I seem to have lost my enthusiasm."  
  
"Oh, don't worry about it." He sighs. The noise is a tad dramatic while he tries to fix his haphazard hair. "On our next date, we'll go somewhere more romantic. Somewhere. . . less likely to turn into a battle for our sanity, perhaps?"  
  
. . .you really don't know what to say to that. Is it a joke? Is it flirting? Going by your tied tongue and severe lack of sarcastic replies, it probably shows often you flirt with other people. So you're expecting the feelings of incredulity and mild discomfort to bubble up in your chest as he flashes you a toothy smile.  
  
You are not  expecting this. . . this bewildering sense of happiness mixed in with the rest, though. Or the nervousness. Or the heat blossoming across your face and the absurd grin tugging at your mouth when you shake your head.  
  
"Laser tag can be romantic, right?" Mark continues, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin. "We could improvise. Like, laser tag on the beach? Or, maybe with candles? That sounds fun _and_ slightly dangerous. . ."  
  
Oh, God. He has to stop. And you're about to tell him as much, but something weird streaks by the far side of your new tunnel. It looked like a person, except. . . not? You don't know. You glimpsed black and. . . smoke, maybe? So bizarre. . .  
  
You hold out an arm in front of him and frown at where the hazy figure vanished. "Hey, I like the beach thing more than the candle thing, but I just saw. . ." You shake your head again as you two hesitate underneath one of the light bulbs. "Well, it was something. And not Chris Walker."  
  
Mark follows your stare, his own narrowing. "I can't remember anyone. . . or anything else being down here, but you never know. Uh, at least we don't have to go that way." He jabs a thumb to your right. "There's a gap between those wooden structures over there. The rooms with the valves should be on the other side."  
  
Your frown deepens, and something cold prickles along your neck. . . but you reluctantly fall into his shadow as he leads the way. There was definitely _something_ there. And you hope that you don't meet up with it anytime soon. It didn't even seem human, and not in the way that the Variants don't seem human, either. Could it have been the Walrider. . ?  
  
You guys squeeze through the structures without injuring anything vital, and the first thing that you notice about this area is that it is. . . very well lit. Almost suspiciously so. And then the faded map is second, which is on the wall to your left, opposite a ladder leading into a flooded section where the. . . Lower Junction is, going by the sign posted above it. Huh. Maps _and_ signs. How unlike the survey jerks to be this helpful.  
  
It must be a trap.  
  
". . .that would be our destination." Mark nods at the ladder. "And the valve rooms are easy to find. It's the getting there and the getting back here parts that are going to be the issue."  
  
You squint over his shoulder, past the shipping boxes scattered up ahead. Nothing. And no trace of that smoke-guy. Awesome. After making sure that you are definitely alone, you walk up to the map and study its worn, color-coded paths.  
  
"Um, that is a dead end." You frown, and point straight from your current location. "And, if this area is like a  sealed-off circle-thing. . . according to this, it might be more prudent for you to head towards one valve and me towards the other, and for us to meet up at the ladder afterwards. . . Hey, hey -!" You hold up your hands in surrender just as he opens his mouth, an annoyed look on his face.  
  
"I know, I know. Splitting up is bad and stupid for any and all reasons." You defend. "I'm not arguing with you about that. Except. . ."  
  
"Then, what are  we arguing about?" Mark interrupts, knocking the top of the Mag-Lite gently against your arm. "We stick together _no matter what_ -which means that we don't lose sight of each other, [Name]. Yeah, it might be easier or whatever to distract Walker if we aren't together, and maybe it might take us less time to reach the valves. But, no." He scowls. "We are not doing that. There is no way in hell  that I am jeopardizing your safety for the sake of. . . of fucking convenience."  
  
An unexpected strike of warmth lights through your chest. ". . .okay." You grin lopsidedly at him. "I'm sorry. I won't suggest it ever again."  
  
"That's right, you won't. Don't even think it."  
  
"Understood, Garrus."  
  
He huffs under his breath, though his eyes are hopelessly fond as he bumps your shoulder with his. "What am I going to do with you? Jeez. . ."  
  
And. . . yeah, you don't have an answer for that. Mainly because you've spotted the scarred bulk of Chris Walker at the end of the tunnel, which cuts the moment short. Mark hisses a curse and tugs you off to the left, around the curve of the damp wall and out of sight. The spot with the map was sort of like the heart of a four-way intersection, so. . .  
  
"Down this tunnel, and the one now across from us, will lead us to both valve rooms?" You whisper, nails tangling in his shirt sleeve as you hurry along the shiny-wet stone. It's a bit hard to remember what the map said with your heart punching at your ribs, but you think that's correct.  
  
"Yeah, and we're off to a decent start." Mark says, his own voice low and rushed. "By this point, he was already coming after me. I was almost caught and killed five or six times in these fucking sewers."  
  
That. . . isn't reassuring.  
  
"I'd rather not be almost caught and killed even once while we're doing this, though." You gulp. "You never know. . . It could happen."  
  
It's a pointless hope, but you still cling to it as he clicks on the flashlight. Some things just can't be helped, and though the main section still had working bulbs, these branching tunnels are pitch fucking black. You guys can walk fast, but running is definitely out of the question. If one of you trips and falls. . . an ankle injury would really hold you up.  
  
Not to mention make you pretty pathetic targets for Chris Walker, and you are _not_ going to be killed because of a sprained foot or anything, thank you very much.  
  
There are a few twists and turns that have you two stumbling through the water, but nothing that really slows you down. The tell-tale _thudding_ of monstrous footsteps behind you seems to thunder off of the walls and echo everywhere at once. He may just be searching the perimeter. He _might_ not know that you're here. . .  
  
Mark puts on a sudden burst of speed when the Mag-Lite beam hits another wooden obstruction in front of you, and your clammy fingers tighten around his as you dare to look over your shoulder. God, no. If you're blocked in. . . oh, shit.  
  
"Um, he found us." You croak.  
  
"It doesn't matter -just go through there!" Mark practically pushes you at the tiny space between the boards, his paling face barely visible against the jumping glow of the light. "He won't catch us if we hurry up!"  
  
You don't waste any time throwing yourself through the gap, flinching as rough wooden bits ram like spikes into your hands and dig at the tender, fleshy skin underneath your nails. The burn of adrenaline numbs a fraction of the pain, but not nearly enough to keep you from gasping out. Wet heat stings down your wrists and the edge is so far away and there is _no_ fucking air in here and you can't _breathe_. . .  
  
And then you're crashing to the ground in a haze, choking down huge lungfuls of oxygen and not even caring about the stench. Pinpricks of violent white explode at the corners of your vision, and when you glance down. . . your palms are just about ripped to shreds. Leaking blood everywhere.  
  
But you can't deal with that, no way. Not right now. You stagger to your feet, shivering as you turn around. Mark is about half-way through the space, scrambling and gouging his nails into the wood with Chris Walker not six feet from the opening behind him. . .  
  
A bucket of freezing cold water tips down your spine. He's not going to make it. Oh, God, he's not going to -!  
  
"MARK!" You scream, diving towards him, arms reaching out so far that something pops  near your shoulder when you smack into the dividers. You are distantly aware of how much it hurts, and you really don't fucking care. An excess of blood and sweat makes trying to get to him almost damn impossible. Your eyes are filled with acid. Your lung are bubbling with glass. Your fingers slip and slide uselessly against each others' as Chris Walker attempts to break in from the other side.  
  
"You aren't going anywhere, little pig." He growls.  
  
Somehow, miraculously, your hand connects with solid flesh. A wrist? An arm? You don't know, but you latch onto it for dear life and give Mark the hardest fucking yank that you can manage. This. . . this horrible, agonized sound is wrenched from his throat, and it hits you like a punch in the jaw that Walker must have grabbed him, too.  
  
"God-dammit!" You yell, furious tears running down your face. "I'm not letting go, do you hear me? I am _not_ letting you go!"  
  
Mark's wide, dark gaze holds yours, glazed with fear and pain. Staring at him in this one, suspended moment is more excruciating than the fire raging inside your shoulder. He opens his mouth to say something, and. . .  
  
You don't know how it happens. You don't even know _what_ is happening until you are slamming back into the cement, the wind sucked straight from your lungs like a fucking vacuum. Stars shoot across the darkness. Your ears throb. Close to two hundred pounds worth of weight lands on top of you, shaking uncontrollably.  
  
Fuck. You can't. . . move. But you guys aren't safe here. You aren't. . . have to. . . get up, and get Mark up with you. . .  
  
A fresh burst of shrieks reverberate through the tunnels. Well. . . that's probably why the two of you are still alive. Walker must have set his sights on victims who were more available.  
  
"M-Mark. . ?" You clear your throat, your voice scratching out from chapped lips. "It's okay. I've got you. I've got you." Your left arm. . . it feels all wrong. Weird and stretched and throbbing. The pressure squeezing through your shoulder is so intense that you actually want to be sick.  
  
You shut your eyes and stroke your right hand over his hair, bloodied fingers softly dancing up the back of his neck. His face is still buried against your collarbone, glasses pinching, and a slow warmth soaking into your shirt as he tries to stop crying. You can't hear him, though, which is the worst of it. His entire body heaves, vibrating with tension and. . . utterly, brokenly soundless.  
  
"I'm. . . I'm sorry." He finally chokes out, and he drags himself onto his knees with the fading strength of an old man. "I didn't mean to just. . . to just collapse like that. . ." He pauses, wipes his face, and. . . "Oh, God." A faint whisper. "Holy shit."  
  
At the sudden change in his tone, your fluttering eyes drift down from the shadows and find him kneeling beside you. The Mag-Lite must have landed somewhere close, because the glare throws his face into sharp, white relief.  
  
Pain. Disbelief. Exhaustion. And sheer panic -just to name a few of the emotions in his paled expression.  
  
"Why didn't you say something?" He demands, a sob dragging against his clenched teeth. "Why didn't you fucking _say_ something, [Name]?"  
  
"Like what?" You expel a rough breath through your nose. "Like _what?_ I'm sorry that you were almost torn in half -but I need you to forget about that immediately because my goddamn shoulder is dislocated? Fuck that, Mark." Another wave of tears spills from your eyes as you look the other way. "Shoulders can be fixed." You mutter. "And people. . . people can't be."  
  
You struggle to sit up, flinch, and nearly black out as brass-knuckled nausea slams into your gut. "Oh. . . kay." You groan, your head banging into the ground again. Freezing sweat pours down every square inch of your flesh. "I can't. I can't move. You're gonna have to pop my arm back in, or I'm not going anywhere."  
  
Mark swears and runs trembling palms over his hair. "God, I don't know. . . I don't know how to do that." He swallows. "What if I make it worse? I'm not a doctor. I'm not even fucking close!" Another frustrated curse, and you can feel his unsteady fingers warm and gentle against the side of your face. "God-dammit. I don't want to hurt you."  
  
"Shut up. . . nurse." You force a weak grin. It probably isn't anywhere close to reassuring, but it's all that you have. "You aren't going to hurt me any worse that what I'm feeling right now. Trust me, buddy. You have to do this. You can  do this. . . because, I kinda need you to."  
  
"You are fucking unbelievable, Shepard." He grumbles, leaning over and brushing his forehead into yours, just for a second, before he pulls back and slowly, painstakingly, guides you into an upright position. "It must be one of the reasons why I'm so damn crazy about you." He mutters.  
  
. . .and the agony is surely making you delirious, because there is no way that you heard that correctly.  
  
"Okay, okay." He takes a deep breath. "As I'm sure you know, going by your smart ass reference, my mother is a nurse. So. . . theoretically, I should totally be able to figure this out."  
  
"There you go. Positive thoughts, Garrus." You wheeze, dizziness washing through you as he carefully moves your arm, and then, makes sure to bend it at the elbow and support it accordingly. At the very least, the slices across your hands seem to have begun to clot. So. . . you aren't bleeding on him _too_ much.  
  
"This happened to my brother once. He fell out of a tree, the idiot." You grimace. "He said that his doctor kind of pushed his arm up, rotated it out until resistance was met, and rotated it back towards his chest. It's. . . ah. It's supposed to be. . . a fairly simple maneuver."  
  
"Simple." Mark echoes. He tries to inject as much confidence into his voice as he can, but you like to think that you know him pretty well by now. He's absolutely terrified. "Yep, I can do simple. No problem. Um. . ." He starts turning your useless left arm outwards. "Just. . . brace yourself. Everything is going to be okay."  
  
You nod and close your eyes. "Of course it is." Your whisper barely makes it through your tensed, gritted jaw. "Because I have you here."  
  
And, yeah. Making a long story, short? You do not recommend that anyone dislocate their shoulder. Seriously, you never thought that pain like this even existed  outside of. . . stabbings or gunshot wounds. Good fucking Lord. The wooden structures boxing you and Mark into this area better be strong enough to withstand charging elephants, because the yell that you let out after everything snaps back into place actually hurts your throat -it's that fucking loud.  
  
But almost all of the crushing agony disappears as soon as it's fixed, leaving only dull, minor flares of agony and numbing exhaustion in its wake. Mark helps you stand, and while he goes into the nearby room and turns the draining valve, you guard the open doorway and attempt to rip the sleeves from your shirt to bandage your shaking palms.  
  
The uncomfortable pins-and-needles sensation returns to your sore limbs when you two make it back to the main section of the sewers, by the map and the ladder. You didn't have to dodge any more attacks from Chris Walker, though the frequent sobs and shouts ringing out behind you indicate that other partners must be. . . and likely not succeeding.  
  
You guys ignore them. And it's getting easier each time.  
  
"Well. . . all right, then." Mark stares down into the once-flooded ladder tunnel, his hands and wrists starting to fade away. "I guess someone else managed to get to the other valve?" He glances over at you, brows furrowed. "We should climb down. Get as far as possible while we're still here."  
  
"I'm right behind yah, buddy." You nod wearily. You're leaning against the stone wall next to him and  bordering dead-on-your-feet levels of consciousness. "Better make it quick, though. I don't know how much climbing we can do without any hands."  
  
He snorts, flashes you a brief smile that seems to take quite a bit of effort. You can see the worry in his face whenever he looks at you -the heavy crease between his brown eyes and the tension around his thinned lips. But, after that first time of asking if you were holding up okay, he hasn't asked since. Which you appreciate. . . even though doing nothing is clearly killing him. He wears his heart on his sleeve, and he just can't help it.  
  
You love that about him. And. . . you honestly admire him for it. You can barely feel your own fucked-up emotions most days, let alone feel enough for others. And you're beginning to realize that, maybe. . . maybe, letting people in when you need them. . . It isn't such a terrible thing.  
  
Maybe.


	14. Into the Ocean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's either sink or swim, and you aren't sure if either option will keep you from drowning.

You and Mark make it to the bottom of the ladder and hit the ground running. It's brighter down here, but colder. The air is thick and sticky-sweet, and the shallow river that your shoes are slapping through is pale reddish with blood. Mark is forced to slow down when his legs begin to flicker, and he turns to you like a shimmering ghost in the shadows.  
  
"You ice that shoulder when you get home, Shepard. Better yet -go to the hospital and make sure that I didn't fuck anything up." He tells you, his voice mock stern but his eyes betraying his anxiety. The sprint winded him -he's breathing heavier than normal and a wince crosses his face, transparent hand going to his chest.  
  
Shit. Of _course_ he would have hurt himself and of _course_ he wouldn't have told you. You bet it was Walker. He might have even fractured a rib or two. . .  
  
"You are just as impossible as I am, you know that?" You grumble, reaching for the hem of his shirt.  
  
He lets you lift it, reluctantly, though his cheeks still flush pink with embarrassment. "Hey, that's nothing." He tries to reassure you. "A whole mess of bruises. Don't. . . don't worry about it."  
  
. . .fuck.  
  
"Are you kidding?" You scowl at him and drop the shirt. "Christ, Mark. . . those aren't just fucking bruises!" Almost the entire left side of his ribcage is a vicious display of blues and mottled purples. God-dammit. Something is definitely broken -you don't have to be a doctor to figure that out. "If I have to go to the stupid hospital, then so do you."  
  
"Deal." He immediately promises. And his answering smile is another grimace. "I'm telling you that it's nothing to worry about, though."  
  
You glare at him without any heat. "I always worry about you when we return home."  
  
Silence follows this, which isn't very surprising. Mark stares at you, his gaze wide, but everything is growing hazy white and he doesn't have the chance to respond. You close your eyes when the light becomes too blinding to keep them open, and someone blasts the volume of the static as you are dragged beneath the surface of the world.  
  
. . .but something is different? Yeah, this isn't. . . quite right.  
  
You scrunch up your expression in confusion, eyes still closed as a familiar warmth touches your skin. It's not harsh or overwhelming. . . or anything like that sterile white place from before. It just feels like normal sunshine, which instantly puts you on guard. If you were home, it would be cold and snowing. But this. . . this is an early spring kind of sunshine. Soft yellow against your lashes and comforting, with a stirring breeze that ruffles your hair. The discomfort in your hands and shoulder is muted, too. It's still there. . . and yet oddly far away.  
  
Warily, you open your eyes. Tall green trees. Chirping birds. Gravel paths with people jogging or walking their dogs.The sweetness of freshly mowed grass and wild flowers. It looks like. . . a park? What the hell?  
  
You turn in a circle, blinking dumbly. You must look like some bewildered idiot, but no one is paying you the slightest bit of attention. "Excuse me. . ?" You call out to the closest person: a woman fixing the strap on her bike helmet. "I, um. I forget the name of this park. Can you tell me where I am?" You ask.  
  
She ignores you. And when she climbs on her bike and pedals away, she passes right through you. You don't feel a thing.  
  
Uh. . . okay? Seriously, what the hell is going on?  
  
You try talking to a few others along the path, and the same thing happens: nothing. Not even a glance in your direction. They aren't ignoring you, you're just. . . you aren't really here. Wherever you are. Is this still part of the survey? Should you be expecting -?  
  
Oh. Oh, no. You would have been less affected if Chris Walker had burst from the woods and started attacking. But. . . no. It's not him. It's not anyone from Outlast, nor is it Mark. He's tall and thin, with short brown hair peppered silver at the temples. Hunched shoulders, hands in the pockets of his baseball hoodie as he heads into the trees.  
  
Your thoughts blank. An explosion of white noise tears through your skull. This is the park twenty minutes from your house. This is. . . April 3rd. April 3rd, 2009 -six years ago this coming April.  
  
"No. No, no, no. . ." You whisper under your breath, the world slanting beneath your shoes as you begin to run. And then sprint. And then, your feet are pounding so hard into the ground when you cut across the grass that it sends dizzying shock waves up your legs. The blood screams in your ears, thunders against your head.  
  
This can't be happening. God, please. . . he wouldn't. If he is up there, somewhere, watching out for you. . . he wouldn't do this to you. Not again. Oh, please. . . _no_.  
  
You breach the forest path and almost trip on the sudden change in terrain -the rocks and the sloping, muddy trails clawing at your soles, trying bitterly to drag you down, drag you back. But you don't falter. You don't stop. He wasn't that far ahead of you, was he? You should be able to catch him, you should. . .  
  
Your limbs feel like watery, insubstantial sticks. If you stop, you're going to break. You are going to break into a thousand pieces or burst into flames. Your lungs are pressed so tightly into your spine that it feels like you're on the verge of suffocating. Please, _please_. . .  
  
And you see it -the clearing just beyond the fork up ahead. You're so close; you're so close! You can make it, you can save him!  
  
Not thirty yards away from the clearing, now. Just thirty more, and twenty-five. . . and twenty. . . and you see him. Oh, God. You can see him, and he's lifting his hand and you are _thirteen fucking yards away_ and you are screaming with every last _burning_ ounce of energy in your body as it begins to shut down.  
  
"DAD, NO! PLEASE -!"  
  
The shattering _bang_ of a single gunshot kicks your heels out from underneath you, and you. . . you are crashing to the ground in a numb, frozen fog. Hands uselessly outstretched. Too late. Too late. . . and too far away, as he crumples and fades away.  
  
You don't. . . you don't even. . .  
  
Your eyes close. When the minutes stretch, and they begin to hurt. . . as everything begins to hurt and throb again, there's a voice. But. . . it's not the one that you are praying to hear.  
  
". . .still can't believe that you actually fell down the stairs, [Name]."  
  
Mom, sitting next to you. And the world is moving. You can feel every bump in the road inside of her old station wagon. You must be in the passenger seat.  
  
"At least the doctor was able to pop your shoulder in for you." She goes on. And on. And on. "Make sure to ice it as soon as we get home. And your hands! For the love of God, honey. How could you have been cooking without oven mitts? You have more common sense than that!"  
  
You can't listen to this.  
  
"Mom?" You whisper hoarsely. Your eyes are still closed. If you keep them that way, then. . . maybe. . . "Can we drive in silence, please?"  
  
She pauses. Maybe she looks at you. Maybe she sees something that makes her bite her tongue, because she listens. The rest of the ride home is very quiet, but your ears are still ringing. She tries to talk to you again when you finally get back to the house. You don't listen, and it's not even on purpose. Your motions are slow and automatic. Your head feels like a swollen balloon. You grab a rattling white bag before you leave the car, and your mother, behind.  
  
It's probably eight different bottles of painkillers that the doctor prescribed. Guess the cover story is that you tripped -? Fuck. You don't care. You really. . . really don't. Mom watches you stagger up the stairs from the kitchen, and you think that you try and wave at her. Let her know that you. . . you are. . .  
  
You aren't. You aren't okay. Oh, man. You aren't okay at all.  
  
You land hard on your knees before you can even make it into your room, and you have to crawl the rest of the way inside on stitched, stinging palms all wrapped up in thick white gauze. You don't take off your jacket. You don't take off your boots. You get to the foot of your bed and collapse on the rug, sore left arm cradled against your chest and your right reaching for a blanket.  
  
Even your most horrible nightmares of imagining how it happened have never been like that. You don't know what the _fuck_ that was. If those survey assholes are screwing with you again, or if it was just some hallucination brought on by stress. . . God-dammit.  Why couldn't you have just returned to that white place? Why couldn't you have just heard his voice? Why couldn't you. . . why couldn't you reach him in the forest?  
  
. . .why couldn't you save him?  
  
All of the blankets suddenly tumble from your bed, and you pull them over yourself until even your head is covered. The darkness underneath them is warm. The air a little stale, but safe. It's so hard to keep this under control sometimes. It's so hard. . . so fucking hard, to bear this weight alone.  
  
You miss him, and this time. . . it's nearly unbearable. You would give _anything_ to have your father here right now. You would even stay in that miserable asylum, just to bring him back. Safe and happy.  
  
You sleep fitfully for about an hour. And then you kick off your boots and your jacket and sleep for another thirty minutes, shivering violently beneath your dozens of layers and tossing, and turning, and tossing. The meds take the edge off of the aches, but your shoulder is sore and your hands are stiff and throbbing when you finally wake up for good.  
  
It's almost dark outside. Windy, though it isn't snowing yet. You're groggy and annoyed, sick to your stomach and jumpy. You take a shower and change your clothes, but you can't eat anything. The pills are making you nauseous, so you just drag yourself back to bed with an ice pack. Sighing, you lean your head against the wall, attempting to distract your churning thoughts with memories of Mark.  
  
You really hope that he went to the hospital and got those bruises checked out. As long it was only his ribs and not his lungs, because punctured lungs are dangerous. Cracked ribs suck, but. . . there aren't as many complications.  
  
Four nights. You two have survived four fucking nights of this. And though it might feel like four damn years  have passed in the process, it almost seems too good to be true. You know that these last three are going to be the most difficult, but you. . . you almost dare to hope by this point. Almost.  
  
You glance towards your laptop, which is resting patiently at the edge of your bed. Once again, taped to the top is. . . huh? Hang on, it doesn't look like a survey note this time. Actually. . . it looks like a photo. Frowning, you gingerly lean over and peel it from the cover. Your heart skips to a full, panicked stop once you realize what the subjects are.  
  
Or _who_ the subjects are. You don't know how it was taken, but the grainy image is of you and Mark, and it was captured at a near perfect moment of him explaining something to you in the asylum. His hands are caught mid-wave, an excited grin overwhelming his face, and you are staring at him with the sappiest, most ridiculous expression that you have ever worn. Ever. And not only that. . . but Mark is circled heavily in red permanent marker.  
  
You turn the picture over, fingers tensing, a knot catching in your throat. There isn't much written, but scrawled in messy red print across the back, is. . .  
  
**How far are you willing to go for him?**  
  
And. . . that's it. No fake congratulations. No unpleasantly nice praise for killing other kids or whatever the fuck these assholes care about. Nothing but this.  
  
You let the photo slip to the blankets and swallow, squeezing your eyes shut. Well, that kind of confirms it, then. Whatever happens, you are going to be the one who gets the unhappy ending. Which is. . . fine. You were expecting as much, anyways. Slumping down, you bury yourself deeper beneath your covers and drop the ice pack to the ground.  
  
How far _are_ you willing to go for Mark? There aren't any limits to that question. You'll go as far as it takes. No matter what. And no regrets. You are not going to screw this up. You are _not_ going to let another person that you care about slip away.  
  
Eventually. . . you fall asleep again. When you blearily wake up, however many minutes or hours later, you aren't surprised at all to find that you're already back in Mount Massive. That has to be the least amount of time that those jerks have given you to try and recuperate. Again, not very shocking. This is Night Five, and you're betting that your breaks in the other world are going to keep growing shorter until Night Seven.  
  
The thick stench of blood and sewers greets you as you come to. A constant, low-grade ache settles inside your shoulder when you roll onto your back, hard cement and cold liquids already seeping through your shirt and the legs of your pants. And. . . know what? It doesn't even bother you. The only thing that you are honestly grateful for is that your hands are still bandaged, and none of the stitches appear to be leaking.  
  
You force yourself into a lopsided sitting position, squinting against the flickers of eerie yellow light. "Mark?" You whisper. "Where are you?"  
  
The gurgle of the reddish water answers.  
  
"Mark. . ?" You climb to your feet and look around, a mounting uneasiness like icy fingers clenching your heart. "Come on, buddy. Where are you?" But. . . he wouldn't. He would never keep you waiting if he were here -nor would he have left you behind.  
  
Not. . . not willingly, he wouldn't have. Your disbelieving eyes notice your flashlight some yards down the tunnel. Already switched on and sputtering weakly, its beam angled deeper into the sewer.  
  
"Fuck." You choke. "Not fucking possible." You walk over and pick it up just as the bulb goes out completely. He isn't here. _He isn't here_ and what the _hell_ are you supposed to do? Did someone take him? Was it Chris Walker? Or the Walrider? Oh, God. Oh. . .  
  
You cover your gaze with stinging palms and force out a slow, trembling breath. Getting upset isn't going to help anyone. You have to stay calm. You have to be smart about this and you have to _think_. Now. . .what happened the last time that you guys were brought back? Your brain spins through a whirlwind of chaotic memories.  
  
A security room. Alarms blaring. Mark was. . . he was up in a ceiling vent. You hadn't been there with him, and he was about to leave when you appeared, right? Yeah, yeah, that was it. So, maybe. . . you're here early? If you just wait, he should come back soon, shouldn't he?  
  
. . .shouldn't he?  
  
But what if he doesn't? What if _he_ was the early one? What if you took so long to return, that _he_ went looking for _you?_ That's equally as possible, since you were also late before. And yet. . . the Mag-Lite? There is no way that he would have gone anywhere without it. Shit.  
  
Shit, shit, shit!  
  
You scrub your nails over your head and a frustrated groan slips past your teeth. Okay, okay, okay. You have to. . . you have to get a plan together. You aren't stupid, and you aren't useless on your own. Not to mention: you're good at video games.  
  
First, you'll wait. Just for a few minutes, and if Mark doesn't show up. . . you'll go searching. Chances are that he's going to be late, and. . . he knows this game. He'll know where to go and he'll probably be the one to stumble upon you wandering around down here.  
  
All right. You're fine. You can do this.  
  
A sliver of relief works its way through your anxiety -the tiniest point of light inside of these darkened clouds, but. . . it's enough. It's enough for now. You sit down at the edge of the cement and hug your left arm against your chest, your right hand with a death-grip on the Mag-Lite.  
  
You don't realize how much you truly depend on someone until they aren't there beside you. You've had to struggle and survive through that once, and. . . and you don't know if you can piece together the strength to do it again. You really don't.  
  
You watch the corners ahead with wide eyes and count to sixty seven times, quietly under your breath. If only to hear something other than the bangs and creaks of the pipes and the unsettling whispers of the blood passing through the drains. There is still no sign of Mark, and you have to go.  
  
"Please, come and find me." You mumble, popping your only two batteries into the Mag as you stand up. "Or. . . I'll find you. I promise."  
  
Navigating these tunnels alone. . . it's terrible. You are looking behind you more than you're checking the shadows in front. Every little noise makes you jump, and every turn looks the same. You stick close to the wall, one hand trailing along the slimy stone, and you _know_ that the bunched pressure along your spine and knotted down your back is not the ideal rehabilitation for your shoulder. But you can't relax. Christ, could anyone? Being stuck in these fucking sewers alone?  
  
It's enough to drive anyone insane.  
  
Your pace is hurried and a little unsteady, but you don't stop and and you don't hesitate. Even when you're faced with forks or dead-ends or the occasional dead body _clunking_ down from the pipes and splashing into the blood around you. You don't have the fucking _time_ to be indecisive about that. Sure, you nearly hit the ceiling every three minutes, especially when the river runs thicker and redder over your high tops and begins to carry heads and chunks of shredded body parts. . . but you keep going.  
  
You have to. You have to keep going and you have to find Mark. You _will_ find Mark. . .  
  
At one point, you honestly believe that there is a monster lurking down here with you. You hear nails scratching violently against the walls and these strangled, horrifying wails pulsing through the air -everywhere and nowhere all at once. They last only seconds before they abruptly cut out again, and they can grow louder and louder until you think that the thing is directly behind you, about to sink its fangs into your neck and bleed you dry.  
  
Nothing is ever there, though. And you are almost too distraught to be grateful every damn time that it happens. When you round corner number seventeen or seven thousand, you throw your good shoulder at the closed door at the end of the tunnel, praying that the stupid thing is unlocked.  
  
It's not. And why would it be? But. . . there is a small drainage hole in the wall next to it. If you don't crawl through it, you'll have to turn around and waste even more valuable minutes trying to find another way. And. . . no. Fuck that.  
  
You jog in place for a moment, shake your head, and take a huge breath. And then you are scrambling head first into the passage, flashlight clicked on. Sharp, needling pains shoot through your hands, but there is no helping that. Got to press on. Got to keep moving forward, and. . .  
  
And, fuck. This tiny passage is just winding further and further into the foul-smelling gloom. You don't see anything that indicates it's going to end, and. . . um, the walls aren't closing in over you, are they? The tunnel isn't getting smaller and smaller the deeper you go, is it?  
  
Sweat drips down your brow and stings your eyes. The only thing that you can hear in this darkness is your heart, slamming against your ears and swollen between your ribs. God, you can _not_ lose it. Breathe. Breathe, [Name]. You are not trapped, and all of this blood must end up somewhere, right? There _is_ a way out and you _will_ find it. Unless. . . there are bars fitted into the other side. . .  
  
You take the right path when you're given a choice, and when the Mag-Lite finally illuminates some storage boxes and a higher ceiling. . . you feel like crying. Relief is a warm, heady sensation swimming through your veins as you stagger upright. There are giant rusted pipes and a ledge with electrical equipment and. . . and are you almost out of these godforsaken sewers? You have no idea, but this looks incredibly promising.  
  
You climb up onto the next level and head through the only door -which brings you to a silent, metal walkway. Most of it appears intact, though there are some broken grates that lead into the water swishing below. And that is a lot of water, too. Guess. . . you're going swimming.  
  
Thankfully, this part is pretty simple compared to the tunnels. You can really only go one way across the metal, and the only problems that you have are when you have to plunge into the icy water. You can swim, sure. It's just. . . not fun. And it makes your bad shoulder ache something awful.  
  
The collapsed walkway eventually leads you into a cavernous room. The water levels are about to your waist, which can be good or lousy, given that you can't walk very fast without making a shit ton of noise. . . but it's still a quicker method of traveling compared to your flailing breaststroke. Even better news is that as soon as you brace yourself and wade into the chilly depths, still soaking wet and trembling from your last underwater adventure, you have to click the Mag-Lite off because you hear. . . something. Chains clinking together? And. . . gentle sloshing. Like a giant body is moving through the pool.  
  
Oh, man. Sea monsters? Are there sea monsters down here? Was Murkoff doing any weird gene experimentation on different animals? It's not like you can run from a damn shark monster -!  
  
You pause near the edge of the wall, nervously squinting into the darkness. No monsters, so far. . . but what is that? A ladder? Holy shit, it is. That has to be the exit. It has  to be. You take an excited step towards the faint bluish light spilling down from the ceiling, which is still a decent thirty yards from where you are.  
  
. . .and a flicker of movement catches your attention, skulking in front of the ramp underneath the ladder. All of your excitement shrivels up and dies a cold, cold death. Because it's Chris fucking Walker over there, and. . . shit. You have not moved a muscle and he sees you.  
  
And there is absolutely nowhere to hide.


	15. Become the Catalyst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You will not fall, and you will not fail.

Do not panic. Whatever you do, do _not_ panic. Or you will be killed in a most brutal and horrific manner -and no one will be able to help Mark if you're dead.  
  
"Oh, it's the pretty little whore." Chris Walker sneers, and the distance between you and the Variant is shrinking with every sweeping stride that he takes. "But where is her little pig? Is he. . . here? Is he. . . gone?" A laugh like thunder pounds against your skull.  
  
No, you can't listen to this. You can't let yourself be distracted. You just, you have to. . . fuck! You don't know! You certainly can't run -he'll catch you. Maybe. . . maybe you could. . . he's fast, right? But you've dodged by him at close range before, back at your house. Maybe you can try that again. As soon as he closes in, and you can use the wall behind you for an extra speed boost. . .  
  
Your nerves are shot. You are so terrified that you can barely stand. But when Walker is about eight feet away, almost within hair-yanking reach, you hold your breath and plunge into the water. High tops planted flat against the stone and then you are shooting through the cold and the darkness -sideways. And you stay beneath the surface for as long as possible while he stomps around and howls his rage, ripples spreading out under his fists like mini nuclear explosions.  
  
But you can't hold your breath for very long. The water is too icy and you think that your lungs have frozen solid by the time that you're forced to come up. The smallest intakes of air make you feel dizzy and sick to your stomach, and it hurts. . . _fuck_ , it hurts. He doesn't seem to know where you went, though. Please, _please_ let it stay that way. . .  
  
You keep your shivering body submerged, with just your wide eyes and nose hovering above the pool as you move towards the ramp, the ladder, and freedom. The moment you climb onto those grates, though. . . Walker is going to hear you. Guess all you can really do is move fast and pray that he won't be able to get to you in time.  
  
Your fingers fumble against the metal railings when you finally get to the circle of light, and you've already lost fifteen precious seconds before you weakly manage to haul yourself out of the water. God, it hurts even worse. Your bones want to simply lock up and shatter underneath your weight when you stand, but sheer desperation and one last kick of adrenaline miraculously keep you from collapsing.  
  
You don't check to see where Chris Walker is while you slip and stumble along the walkway. You can damn well hear him, of course, but you don't look. Can't focus on anything but getting to that ladder and getting the fuck away from here. And the grates drop out a few feet from the suspended metal rungs, but you don't even pause as you hold your breath and leap. The impact is. . . jarring would be putting it mildly. Your shoulder goes numb and you know that you must have torn a stitch or two in your hands.  
  
Grimacing, you clamber up the ladder and only, _only_ allow yourself to stop and breathe once you've cleared the top. And when you do pause, you pretty much fall over. This room, whatever it is. . . is quiet, and thankfully empty. Your back hits the far wall and you slump against it, running trembling, aching palms over your face.  
  
Come on, Mark. . . where are you?  
  
You spare one last glance towards the hole, and something gives a sharp, ear-splitting _crack_ -and then crashes loudly into the pool. All right, that was probably the ladder. Oh, man. If Mark isn't ahead of you, now. . . No, no. He _must_ have gotten here before you did, and you _are_   going to find him.  
  
And everything is going to be fine.  
  
There is a decent amount of light in this storage room-place, at least, so you take a minute to just put yourself somewhat into working order. Though. . . there isn't a whole lot that you can do about the wet clothes And the wet socks. You _hate_ wet socks.  
  
Grumbling, you pull the Mag-Lite from the tool loop on your cargo pants and wince as you shake the water from the glass. Getting it soaked was sort of unavoidable, given the whole swimming thing. . . but you can't imagine that flashlights are waterproof. The bulb shudders when you switch it on, yet it does, in fact, turn on -which is a miracle. You probably would have cried, otherwise. This stupid thing has been through so much shit with you and Mark. . . You really can't imagine going on without it.  
  
The damp boxes and crates in here don't have anything important in them -except for some impressive mold collections- but you do salvage two more batteries from one of the desks in the corner. You quickly pocket them and hurry into the hallway, clicking the Mag-Lite off to conserve power and. . . probably making a little more noise that you should be. Damn wet shoes.  
  
You peer into a few of the rooms that you pass on your left, but don't stop to search them. From where you are, they seem empty. And empty means useless, so you don't bother to look further. According to the signs on the wall, you're somewhere in the Male Ward, now? Man, you hope that this is the right way.  
  
Technically, so far. . . it's been the only way. And, rather abruptly, it ends. The hall stops at a metal gate blocked with shelves. _Shit_. You whirl around with a scowl, knocking into a wobbly metal cabinet with your bad arm. Another grunted curse spits through your teeth, and you give the stupid thing a kick just as you're about to head back and, apparently, waste some more time. It wasn't that hard of a kick, but the cabinet still shifts about four inches. . . and reveals -? A vent? Huh. . .  
  
Bending down, you shift the cabinet a little more and shine the flashlight into the shadows. And, there are. . . dried blood smears leading into a new room, a red puddle underneath a chair, and a slumped body sitting in said chair. You're going with your gut, here: this seems like the right path. So you shove the cabinet back and crawl through.  
  
The body belongs to a participant. A young woman with long, curly red hair and blank blue eyes, jaw ripped away and exposing her lolling, blackened tongue and a mess of broken teeth. Stapled to her chest is the usual survey note, but nailed right into her upturned hand is a photograph.  
  
What the -? You pull it off with trembling fingers, eyes growing wide.  
  
It's. . .dark, and blurry. but you can clearly see two figures bound by their wrists and ankles, hanging from the ceiling in some. . . some kind of operating room. One of the boys is completely out of focus, bleeding from his ears, maybe? Shit -you don't know. And you don't fucking care, either, since the other kid. . . the kid right in front, glasses crooked on his face, is unquestionably Mark.  
  
You choke out an unintelligible noise, feeling the chill from your wet clothes spreading beneath your skin and stabbing knives through your chest. God. . . how? _How?_ Which monster took him? Who the fuck did this?!  
  
Sparks of red explode at the corners of your sight, and then, the ice in your veins melts into a blistering white-hot rage. Your throbbing hands clench into fists, and you don't even notice the pain from more tearing stitches as you shove the picture into your pocket. Whoever. . . had the _nerve_ to steal him from you. . .  
  
Oh, they better watch their back, because, when you find them? Forget about running away: you are going to rip out their spine and tie it around their goddamn neck. String _them_ up from the fucking ceiling and see how _they_ like it.  
  
All of your fear is gone. The only thing that you can feel right now is anger, and a pressing sense that you might be running out of time. Hang on, Mark. Please, just for a little longer. . .  
  
You step into the silent corridor and set off at a brisk jog, aiming the Mag-Lite where the shadows are the thickest. So far, nothing. No patients, and no Variants. Bits of loose stone crunching beneath your high tops and broken furniture shoved against the other entrances. Bodies. Blood. The last room on your right has a second one of those metal cabinet-things. You bolt inside and immediately throw your good shoulder at it, freeing up the door that it was blocking.  
  
Now. . . left, or right? God, this place is like a freakin' maze. You squint to your right and see more closed, and probably locked, doors. And you _are_ left-handed, so. . . yeah, you're gonna go the other way. Maybe luck is on your side or something, but you try not to hope as you spy another vent and drop to your knees. An operating room. Mark is being held captive in an operating room. . .  
  
And the room that you scurry into almost gives you a heart attack, because it does  look like an operating room. . . except it isn't one. There are damp, putrid-smelling medical gurneys against the walls instead of cots, and frayed white curtains have been pulled around a few to give the illusion of privacy. Behind the curtains. . . there are sounds, too. Gurgling whispers and groans and noises that you really don't need to hear.  
  
You don't know. . . should you check? You certainly don't want to, but. . . could Mark be in here? Was the picture just something to throw you off -?  
  
You take a shallow breath and shake your head. Yep, you've got to do it. Real quick, like ripping off a band-aid, so the wound is exposed and even more painful than before. Um, that's your experience with band-aids, anyways. At least there are only four or five beds that are hidden from view, but. . . no. Wait a minute. In case there is  something unpleasant in one of them -Variant unpleasant, maybe- you need an escape route that _isn't_ going back the way that you came.  
  
Your narrowed gaze quickly scans the perimeter, but there aren't any doors leading in the correct directions. Except. . . oh, there we go -an open vent in the ceiling. And you can just use the gurney underneath it for an extra height boost. You nod to yourself and adjust your grip on the Mag-Lite, readying to use it like a club, if you have to.  
  
You. . . aren't going to go into detail about what you saw when you pulled those curtains. . . but, let's say that the patients in those cots looked half-devoured by a rabid animal, or half-eaten by sulfuric acid. The smell is unbelievable. Pungent fried skin and rotten eggs. You're forcing your stomach back down your throat as you clamber onto the gurney and attempt to reach for the edge of the ceiling grate. No Mark, and  are so grateful that. So fucking grateful. You send a silent _thank you_ to every being up in the sky that might be listening.  
  
Gross. So. . . gross. Good Lord. . .  
  
And you are incredibly grateful that you're so tall, as well. The vent edge is just beyond the tips of your fingers, but with one timed jump, you can slide your hands over the cold metal and hold on. Mark isn't here to help you this time, though, and the tense strain that it puts on your shoulder as you kick out my legs and struggle. . . it brings honest, frustrating tears to your eyes. Dammit, it hurts so much. You wouldn't be surprised if you were doing even more damage to it, to be frank.  
  
Somehow, you make it up, and you crawl through the vent for about three yards before you are dropping down onto the cement in. . .  
  
You don't know where this is. You glimpse blood on the ground, and another participant tied to a chair -a heavily bruised young man shouting his head off like a lunatic as he rocks back and forth on unsteady wooden legs. What the. . ? If there is _anything_ close by, you are so screwed!  
  
Holding your bad arm a little awkwardly against your side, you do a quick sweep of the room before spotting a third metal cabinet. They haven't steered you wrong, yet. You trip over towards the wall. . . just as two violent _thuds_ slam into the bolted double doors on your right, one after another. Like fucking cannonballs attempting to punch through the concrete.  
  
"Oh, that's not good." You mutter. And those _thuds_ happen to belong to the Naked Twins -you catch an unwanted glimpse of their scarred, grayish flesh while you're shoving this stupid cabinet out of your way. "Yep -definitely not good!"  
  
The next five. . . twelve minutes, you don't even _know_ how many minutes, are a hellish whirlwind. There are tight bursts of pain and a bit -or a lot- of panic, and enough adrenaline coursing through your blood to nearly send you into cardiac arrest. You can hear two sets of pounding footsteps behind you as you sprint through room after room after room, slamming doors in their faces -hopefully- and pushing cabinets when you have a moment to slow their progress.  
  
The whole experience is. . . weird and disjointed and almost more nerve-wracking than attempting to climb into that ceiling grate with Chris Walker on your heels. You have no idea where you're going, or even if you're taking the right turns and corners. And there is also a decent possibility that you could just be going in circles. At one point, you think there are at least three or four assholes on your tail. You're having trouble breathing. Your lungs won't work properly because, possibly, something may or may not have caught fire in your respiratory system.  
  
Is this what spontaneous combustion fees like?  
  
You suddenly find yourself scampering up into a wall vent, attempting to block out the wild screams of the patients closing in around you. And then it's a drop inside this bizarre office-area with a black and white checkered floor. You come within mere inches of knocking over shelves and stumbling into walls as you're sliding over desks, your pulse howling as loudly as the Naked Twins.  
  
You gasp out, sweat pouring in stinging rivers down your face. And when you see this giant fucking _hole_ in the floor up ahead. . . your thoughts white-out in stark terror. It's got to be five or six feet wide and, holy shit, you are not gonna make it but you can't _stop_ or the Twins or going to tear your _limbs_ off and you have to go, you have to jump. . !  
  
And, yeah. You jump. You flail through the air and pray with a desperation that  you didn't even know you possessed, and. . . hell, maybe someone up there is actually paying attention to you, because you make it. Sure, the landing makes your teeth snap together and your brain rattle against the walls of your skull. . . not to mention that you almost bite your tongue off in a fit of blind horror -but you still make it, and you aren't dead.  
  
When you finally pull yourself up onto solid ground, you know that you don't the time to just lay there, panting and spluttering. Unfortunately, though, you sort of have to. You give yourself three minutes, until the world isn't spinning so violently and you don't feel like your head is going to explode from the pressure. Then, you haul your shivering frame up, and limp on weakened ankles down the seemingly empty hallway.  
  
You have about nineteen more seconds of uninterrupted peace before the yelling starts again. You have no clue how those Variants were able to circumnavigate the hole, but they are definitely coming up behind you from somewhere, and you are in no condition to keep up that brutal pace. You can barely _walk_ at the moment, let alone anything else! A miserable, wordless groan punches from your chapped lips. With your every muscle sobbing their protest, you start into a slow jog.  
  
God, you can't die here. You cannot die here, _please_. You have to save Mark. You _have_ to. . .  
  
Something shatters, doors bang into the walls. Are they twenty feet away? Or thirty? Maybe even ten? Shit. You guess what those experts say about pushing your body to its very limits in extreme situations is true. Never thought that you would ever have to experience anything like _this_ ,  but. . . you manage to keep going.  
  
Have no idea how, but you do.  
  
In what appears to be a storage room, your splotchy, reddened sight latches onto your imminent savior: a dumbwaiter. Hell, you don't know if you could have asked for a safer place to hide. . . and likely cry for a few good minutes. You climb inside the small, awkward space and curl up, slamming the gate shut with a choked noise of relief. It glides smoothly upward just as the Twins break into the storage room, and then you're gone. Shaking, you draw your legs to your chest and bury your face in your knees.  
  
The pain. . . is worth it, though. Because you're still alive. Because you escaped. You fucking escaped. . .  
  
The dumbwaiter doesn't bring you up more than a single level before it stops. Warily, you peer over your knees into the dusty white light, not believing for a damn second than you are going to catch a break. The room is. . . oh.  Oh, you've been brought to an operating room. A large, well-lit operating room. . . with tables and leaking sinks and carts overflowing with stained, rusted tools. . .  
  
". . .if the other one doesn't arrive soon, we'll just have to begin without her." A nasally, unpleasant voice is saying. "Granted, it won't be as entertaining, but what can you do?" He forces an exaggerated sigh. "I heard that she was an impressive specimen, too. How disappointing."  
  
You don't know what the _fuck_ that you are seeing in there, but it's not what you were expecting. Hell, no. The man speaking is just. . . all tanned, wrinkled flesh stretched tightly over his bones -you can practically count them poking through. His left arm is also wrapped with a mess of IV tubes, pumping what looks like blood into his veins.  
  
Going by the bizarre, magnified glasses and the splattered apron, you are going to say that this asshole is doctor who has lost his mind. And there is another person in the room with him: a participant. A girl. You think. . . he has her tied to one of the metal legs on the farthest table. Her dirty blonde hair is knotted and hanging in thin, greasy curtains in front of her face. Ripped and muddied clothes, head bowed. Silent, but her shoulders are trembling.  
  
Okay, you don't like what's going on. You don't like this one bit, and as you glance around the dumbwaiter for a way to keep yourself moving, the doctor notices you. Shit.  
  
"Ah-ha!" He crosses the room with startling swiftness, and then wrenches open the gate before you can so much as blink. "Miss [Full Name]: our little _star_ of the show." He speaks with a trace of this awful, sarcastic lisp. Feels like homicidal wasps jabbing against your eardrums.  
  
"I was almost afraid that you wouldn't be joining us. But it's so nice that you are." He grabs your arm, your bad arm, and drags you out of the dumbwaiter.  
  
"A simple _please_ would have sufficed, yah prick." You grunt, tugging uselessly against his iron-like grip. Besides, you are. . . You're afraid to pull too hard, because what if you dislocate your shoulder again? If you're in that much debilitating pain, there is no way that you'll be able to get to Mark.  
  
And he's here. Call it another gut feeling, but he _is_ here. This doctor guy has him, you just know it. So, you have to. . . do. . . _something_. Your other arm is perfectly fine, so you reach down and slide the Mag-Lite from your tool loop. Before you can bash his brains in, though, the doctor guy spins around and wraps bruising fingers around your wrist.  
  
"Ah, ah, ah." He taunts. "Look, I'm gonna make this re--eeal simple for yah." He tells you, bloodshot eyes narrowing behind his frames. "You kill me, or hurt me in any  way, and your boyfriend is dead, too. Understand?"  
  
You glare right back at him, but. . . you do relax a fraction after a tense moment. When you do, he lets your right arm go. Bluffing or not, you can't risk any more harm coming to Mark. You'll have to wait for a better opportunity.  
  
"Yeah. I understand." You growl.  
  
"Good." The doctor purrs. "I knew that you were a fairly intelligent one. Now, let's get started. I'll take this." He yanks the flashlight from your hand and tosses it behind him. The metal _clanks_ against the floor and then rolls beneath a sink.  
  
. . .great.  
  
"[Name], this is Brittany. Brittany, [Name]." He forces you down and ties you to the table leg next to the blonde girl. She doesn't even twitch. "Both of you wait right here, and I'll go and get the others. Incentive, you know?" He giggles under his breath. "Otherwise, this won't be any fun."  
  
And he goes, leaving the two of you alone in a stilted silence.  
  
You scowl and curse, yanking on the binds as soon as his footsteps have faded away. No good -they are incredibly tight. So tight that the rope is already digging into your skin and making your fingers tingle. All right. New plan, then. You look over at the girl and scowl deeper. Not that you are really interested in working with a despondent zombie, but you have no choice. You have to make nice with the other kids if you want to save Mark.  
  
He is the only thing that matters.  
  
"Hey, you. Brittany." You hiss. "What the fuck is going on? Did that creep tell you?"  
  
She doesn't answer.  
  
"Come on! He must be keeping your friend here, too." You press, opting for a different angle as your annoyance flares. "You want to save him, right? Don't you?"  
  
Nothing. Oh, you are two seconds away from kicking her in the shin for a reaction. "We'll have a better chance if we do this together, but you've gotta give me something. How tight are your restraints?" You try not to demand. "Can you slip out?"  
  
Yep, that's it. You stretch out your leg and kick her in the shoe. "Stop fucking ignoring me!" You snap. "Maybe you don't care about your partner, but I sure as hell care about mine. Are you just gonna sit there and roll over for this doctor jerk?"  
  
Finally, _finally_ -the girl moves. She lifts her chin, shifts her head, and a dull blue eye is suddenly visible through her lank hair. "He's only going to let one of us live. One pair. Some kind of twisted. . . fight to the death match." She mumbles. "There's no point in working together. So, don't. . ." Something changes in what you can see of her face. A vicious clarity that poisons her features.  
  
"Don't you _dare_ presume that Tommy doesn't mean anything to me." She threatens. Her quiet voice is hard, ugly, and full of hatred. "Because I'm going to gouge your fucking eyeballs out and shove them down your throat as soon as Dr. Trager unties us."  
  
. . .oh. That escalated quickly. Christ. You blink, arching a startled eyebrow at her. She _has_ made it this far in the survey, so her and this Tommy must be as resilient as you and Mark are. Well. . . fine. At least there won't be any bullshit between you, now. You prefer it that way.  
  
"Okay. Eventual eye-gouging, noted." You shrug, letting her ire just wash right off of you. Three. . . or maybe even two nights ago, you would have balked at the idea of killing more kids. You would have tried to convince her that the both of you could get out of this. You would have. . . you don't know, to be honest. But this would have bothered you. Probably a lot.  
  
Now, it just seems like the usual routine. She is simply one more obstacle keeping you from saving Mark, and you can't have that.  
  
And while you sit there on the cold cement. . . your bones feeling like melted wax as you lightly knock your head into the table, you're reminded of Rachel and Travis. How the two of them were already willing to do what had to be done in the very beginning, when all you could do was collapse and cry. And then you think about Ryan and Sara. That caged boy you never got a name for and his partner, Holly. Alice and Sam. Dozens of others who are dead, and likely dozens more who will be trapped in this asylum forever.  
  
You think about them, and you have to wonder what it takes for someone to truly lose their humanity. Where that last straw is in a situation like this one. How strong your mind has to be to keep yourself from falling into that endless abyss. Or. . . how ruthless, maybe. You never really know what you're made of until the very worst happens, right?  
  
And, you're still wondering. . . what exactly are _you_ made of ?


	16. Wretched and Divine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Trager is an asshole.

Dr. Trager returns about ten minutes later. You try to keep your expression as straight as possible when he brings in Mark, but. . . you fail. Horribly. Your entire system tenses up and jolts of electricity pierce through the clouds of exhaustion in your head. You see him, and only him in that moment. Nothing else.  
  
He doesn't look physically injured. Nothing broken or anything -just some bruising, and the previous gash above his right eye is crusted with blood. Your wide gaze flickers over him, absorbing every detail almost hungrily. Alive, he is definitely alive, but unconscious. Bound hands and feet. Glasses missing and his body strapped down into a wheelchair. You hardly notice that the other kid is in a similar state. Because you don't _care_ about the other kid.  
  
God, what has this asshole done to your friend? Was he drugged? Or beaten? The bruises around the left side of his face are a swollen dark purple, and imagining what he must have gone through without you. . . sets your blood on fire.  
  
Dr. Trager wheels the young men to one of the operating tables in the corner. Then, he reveals this massive pair of shears from his blood-stained apron, and holds them with something akin to reverence in his black eyes.  
  
"Ladies. . . the rules for my game are few in number and easy to remember." He begins, and his faint lisp twists with barely contained glee. "Rule One: you do not come near me after your ropes have been cut. Each of your partners has been dosed with something potentially lethal. Or probably lethal, actually." He waves an uncaring hand. "And I'm the only one who knows how to counteract their declining conditions. Kill me, and you kill them. Heh, heh. I'm sure that both of you are quite aware of that by now.  
  
"And. . . Rule Two." He slowly opens the rusted shears, and then _snaps_ them shut with a breathy chuckle. It makes your flesh crawl. "You will fight one another to the death. By all means, be as creative as you would like." He gestures around the room. "Use what you wish, I don't really care. Whoever is left standing will then dispose of whichever boy they prefer. You will be given the drug to save the other. . . and after it has been administered, I will let you leave." He finishes.  
  
"Two simple rules. Doesn't that sound fair?" You're just glad that surgical mask is covering the lower portion of his malformed face, because he must be wearing the biggest, most terrifying smile. "I think it does."  
  
You narrow your eyes, teeth digging painfully into your bottom lip. Ah, no. You don't believe a fucking word of what he says. Letting you leave? Seriously? Yeah, he's not going to do that. And what the hell is this about _dosing_ your partners? At first you assumed that he might have -but how do you know if he actually _did_ inject Mark with something? And what if this so-called antidote he has just makes things worse?  
  
Okay, okay. You've got to be smart about this. First things first: get rid of the blonde and her partner. Then you can concentrate on how to save Mark _and_ kill this doctor asshole.  
  
"Any questions?" Trager snickers.  
  
Neither you nor Brittany say anything to that. Like there is anything _to_ say. You give another pointless tug on your restraints and scowl. You are just. . . you are so tired and you want to get Mark out of here. You don't even care.  
  
Trager clicks his tongue, almost in disappointment. What, does he want you to argue? Whine and protest about how unfair this is? You're betting the blonde girl just wants this shit over with as much as you do. So. . . why prolong the inevitable?  
  
"Come on." You finally grumble. "Cut the fucking ropes already."  
  
"Funny. . . I wasn't expecting _you_ to be the eager one." Trager uses his shears to free Brittany, first. She silently climbs to her feet, rubbing at red, swollen wrists with her hair falling back across her utterly blank face. "You've had quite the change of heart during your nights here, haven't you, Miss [Surname]? Hmm. . ." He approaches your corner of the table, _clicking_ his instrument thoughtfully.  
  
"It's fascinating, really. You and Miss McKenna are the favorite candidates right now. The Soulless and the Wrathful." He chuckles. "Can you guess which one you are -?" With a sharp _creak_ of rusted metal, you feel the ropes drop and a painful rush of blood swim back into your fingers.  
  
They give the participants _nicknames?_ Are you kidding? What -is this whole entire thing based off of the fucking Hunger Games or something? And these survey jerks sit around and watch you guys through cameras and take bets on who will survive the longest? Is this seriously just entertainment to them?  
  
. . .that really shouldn't surprise you. But having it stated so plainly just. . . it makes you feel. . .  
  
"Well, we're gonna find out which one I am -aren't we?" You attempt to deadpan, but you're sure that he can still hear the crackle of flames underneath your voice. He wants to see wrathful? You'll fucking give it to him.  
  
You stand up as soon as Trager backs away and do your best to shut out the ice and sludge congealing along your joints. Inside your shoulder especially, and there are fresh streaks of blood seeping through the gauze tied around your hands. But now is not the time for a damage assessment. The blonde has glanced away, possibly to scope out what she can use as a weapon, so you take the moment to strike first.  
  
There isn't a whole lot in this operating room that will help you, but this is good enough. One of the medical carts next to your table has a glass jar on it with something pink and strange floating inside. Don't know what the hell it is, but you're hoping that the liquid the thing is suspended in is formaldehyde, because that shit _burns_. You pick it up and just heave it at the girl.  
  
And you have damn good aim, thanks to all of those lazy summer days spent playing baseball with your dad when you were a kid, or tossing a football around the backyard together. Brittany flinches and reacts a little too late, her arms trying to block the projectile right when the jar smashes against the side of her face.  
  
Direct fucking hit.  
  
The glass shatters on impact and, yeah, that is definitely formaldehyde. The harsh chemical odor stings your nasal passages from all the way across the room, so you can only imagine how it must smell to her as she lets out this agonized yell. Also, the burning thing. That has to suck. You barely get a glimpse of the bright red welts and scorch marks appearing across her flesh before you're slamming the medical cart into her stomach, because it actually has wheels.  
  
She manages to get her hands on the other side of it, though. And she _growls_ at you as she wrestles it away and spins it into the wall. But, hey. You aren't expecting this to be easy, and you're not about to underestimate her because you somehow caught her unaware. She is not going to let that happen again -you can see as much inside of her dead, vicious eyes.  
  
You need to get to the Mag-Lite. At the very least, you can knock her out with it. Feinting left, and then right, you attempt to dash around her. It's not like you've taken karate or any kind of self-defense course, so you're really just acting on instinct and the bare remnants of your adrenaline. No skill involved in this whatsoever. Brittany, though. . . She must have had some kind of prior training with fighting, because she is able to read your body language without even blinking.  
  
As soon as you attempt to sprint towards the right, and to that sink where you glimpsed the flashlight, she dives for your legs and the two of you both slam into the tile. God- _dammit_. She might be smaller than you are, but she certainly doesn't lack for strength.  
  
You grunt a curse, twisting around and ramming your elbow straight into her face. Her chin snaps out, something _cracks_ , and a heavy red flow stars pouring from her nose. But it barely slows her down. She bares her teeth at you and smashes a fist across your cheek, scrambling on top of you like a fucking animal. Legs kicking out uselessly. Arms pinned down. How the hell did she manage this?  
  
Sharp white pain explodes through your head with another blow. You can taste the thick, unpleasant sweetness of blood filling your mouth as her hands go for your throat, her knees jammed against the small of your back, and. . .  
  
_No_. No fucking _way_ is that happening. Not again. You thrash and struggle and manage to free up one of your arms. Doesn't matter which, because both of them are throbbing in agony. You dig your nails into whichever hand of hers is right in front of your face and bite down. Hard. She screams and smacks you, but you keep your teeth in until blood is dripping down between her fingers and you have a brief moment to gather yourself.  
  
Okay, you have about six inches and twenty more pounds on this girl. Fucking do something about it!  
  
As soon as you let her hand go, spitting out globs of blood in the process, you arch your back violently enough to pull a muscle. . . or five, and fling her off. And you make sure to catch her in the mouth again with your rather bony elbow while you're at it. Rage pulses through you -shades the world in hot, blurry reds as you bolt to the far row of sinks.  
  
Flashlight, flashlight. . . ah! There it is! You drop to your knees and stretch, fingers brushing cold metal just as one hundred pounds of psychotic blonde lands on top of you. "Fucking hell -!" You wheeze out. Is that a knife in her hand? Where the hell did she get a knife. . ?  
  
You don't think. Or you try not to. You only act, react. Your arm swings upward and you smash the blade from her shaking, peeling hand with the head of the Mag-Lite. And in another blur you're shoving her back and crushing her face underneath dripping metal. It only takes a moment, or maybe two, for her to fall limp. For her eyes to roll up white as you knock a few teeth out, and for wells of blood to fill in where her expression has caved in.  
  
You sit back on the floor and stare, breathing hard, a wild flush like a furnace across your flesh as the silence descends. That wasn't. . . Fuck, you're not even relieved that it's done. You're not anything but. . . nothing. You don't know. You don't know what you're feeling past this exhaustion. Being angry is. . . tiring. More so than the violence.  
  
God, you just want all of it to end.  
  
"Almost finished, Miss [Surname]." You hear Dr. Trager drawl. His voice sounds like you're listening to it from under water. "Impressive performance, as expected. Blaire was right about you, it seems."  
  
You turn your head, ignoring the comment. Your eyes flicker straight to Mark. He's still unconscious in his wheelchair, but he looks. . . okay? You're still not so sure if Trager lied about drugging him, because. . . well, wouldn't there be more outward effects? If he was poisoned, or. . ?  
  
. . .what are you supposed to do?  
  
A long, wavering breath slips past your lips. You spit out more blood, a hand automatically moving to your jaw. It _clicks_ when you touch it, and you wince as the motion shoots jagged pains up into your skull. Probably popped a hinge or something. Great. Your eyelids stick, drooping wearily as your gaze skips to the other kid. Tom, right? Yeah, and he's awake. Trager slapped a piece of duct tape over his mouth, but now the good fucking doctor rips it off and the young man cries out.  
  
"Britt. . ?" He whimpers. And then he swears, choking down a sob as his chin drops against his chest.  
  
It's so awful. He's just. . . tied into his wheelchair and crying. Completely shameless. Completely helpless. How can you -? You swallow uneasily as you drag yourself to your feet, somehow still able to _move_ after this terrible night. It's one thing to hurt someone in self-defense, but. . . this is just senseless, cold-blooded murder.  
  
And you'd. . . you'd like to believe you aren't that far gone.  
  
"Your wasting valuable time, sweetheart." Trager grunts, with a fierce, echoing _snap_ from his shears. "Kill this kid and get the drug to save your precious partner. You _do_ want to save him, don't you?"  
  
You square your shoulders back, let out a breath, and approach him without hesitation. "I get it, okay? But how do I know if Mark has actually been dosed? Better yet: how am I supposed to trust a single goddamn thing that comes out of your mouth?" You demand. "Will this wonder drug really 'save' him, or is it just going to make him die in my arms while you and all of your asshole friends watch?"  
  
Your fist tightens around the stained Mag-Lite. "And however you answer me. . ." You grind your teeth and your jaw gives another painful _click_. "It's going to be meaningless, anyways. I've already decided that I'm not going to listen to you."  
  
Trager squints at you from behind his strange lenses, a hardness in what you can see of his grotesque face. "Is that so?" He sneers.  
  
"Yeah, it is." You growl. "I'm not going to do it. I won't kill that kid without a better reason, and I think Mark is fine. I don't know what you and your buddies are playing at, but fuck them, fuck this, and fuck you, too. You shouldn't have touched my partner."  
  
And it might be the stupidest thing that you have ever done in this asylum, right next to trying to beat Chris Walker to death with the Mag-Lite, but you jump on the good doctor with your fists out and smash your skull into his forehead.  
  
He isn't expecting that. To be honest, neither are you. And it fucking hurts, especially when he tumbles backwards and you end up being dragging down with him. But. . . all you know is that this guy cannot be allowed to keep doing this to other kids. You _have_ to stop him.  
  
"You. . . stupid bitch -!" He wheezes. "What have you done?" Blood swells beneath his surgical mask and you flinch back, your gaze wide with shock as he begins to twitch and spasm -like he's having a seizure or something.  
  
What the. . . fuck, is wrong with him?  
  
His body shudders violently, reddish liquid spilling from his ears and the corners of his eyes. You skitter back another foot in alarm, and just manage to catch. . . what? What is that? A needle -? He has a needle sticking out of his upper leg, and you don't even know what to do with that. Was it in his apron? Had to have been. Apparently, you knocked it loose when you landed on him? How the hell else would that have happened?  
  
You can only watch, stunned, as Trager continues to writhe and bleed out from all of his visible orifices. It's. . . pretty awful. Could that have been a dose of his miracle cure? The one that was supposed to 'save' Mark? God. . .  
  
It seems to take an eternity, but he does, finally. . . stop.  
  
You stare at his bloodied corpse for another moment before you can actually move again. A familiar sensation of cold numbs your chest and spreads through your limbs. How. . . how are you still alive? How has any of this tonight been fucking _real?_  
  
You stagger upright in a disorientating fog. Grab the fallen shears and cut Mark loose, letting him slump against you before you hesitate, and glance over at the other kid beside you two. He is completely gone. Glazed eyes. Shallow breathing. Totally unresponsive when you slice the rope around his own hands. Might as well, you know? He isn't going to last long like this, anyways. And then you leave the instrument in his lap before draping Mark over your good shoulder. . . and getting about three steps from the sight of the carnage before you're slipping in blood and losing your balance.  
  
Can't. You can't. No more. Not tonight. You just can't. . . do anything else. You're so tired. You feel like dying. If you aren't dead already.  
  
Trembling, you sit up and lean back into the cabinet behind you. You almost can't even move Mark again, but. . . but you get him up, too. You gently rest his head in the crook of your neck and fold him inside your arms, burying your face in his hair as you listen to his quiet, steady breathing.  
  
In about five minutes, the shears clatter to the floor. You blearily peer to your right, and Tommy. . . he slit his wrists. A distant grief stings your heart, but it's. . . too far away. Everything is so far away. You simply hold Mark closer and slowly, slowly rock, back and forth, back and forth, and close your eyes.  
  
". . .hmm?"  
  
It could be another hour for all that you're keeping track of time in here, but Mark does wake. "[Name] -?" He asks, voice low and groggy. "Is that you?" Panic creeps into the edges of his words as he tries to lift his chin.  
  
"I'm here, buddy." You rasp. "I'm here. And you're safe, and we're. . . we're okay." You lick the copper taste of blood from your lips, refusing to let him go. Which seems to be all right with him, because as soon as he hears you, a heavy sigh leaves his lungs and he relaxes almost immediately.  
  
His fingers clench around your arms, "Good." He murmurs. "Good. I woke up earlier. . . and I didn't know where I was -where you  were. Everything was really bright. . . and then that fucking. . . insane doctor guy knocked me out with something. Fuck if I know what it was. Feels like I'm drunk, though. Not fun drunk, either." He grunts, turning his face back into your neck. "What. . . happened?"  
  
". . .the doctor is dead." You say quietly, brushing your hand through his damp, matted hair. "And two other participants, but. . . you're okay. You're okay." You mutter, as bitter tears fill your eyes. "And that's all that matters to me."  
  
Trager was lying -just like you knew that he was- about the cure he claimed to have. It was the most terrifying gamble that you have ever had to make. . . and, if you hadn't, if you _had_ given Mark what was in that needle. . . God.  
  
Mark stays silent for a long while. you're guessing that he has probably passed out again when he suddenly shifts in your arms. "I'm sorry." He whispers, his hands fumbling down your reddened wrists. "I am so sorry that you had to do this without me."  
  
You can't even feel the ants marching and prickling beneath your skin this time. As Mark fits his warm palms over yours, you can see through your hands and into the blood drying along the cracks in the tiles. "I'm fine." You assure him. "Don't apologize, because. . . we made it. This is it, you know? Night Five is over."  
  
It's finally over.  
  
He turns and stares at you for an immeasurable moment, his expression. . . His gaze is soft and his smile is thin, but his expression is absolutely miserable. "I don't care. I just don't fucking care about this shit anymore, [Name]." His smile twists, and he presses his fading thumb to a stray tear beneath your eye. "All I care about is staying with you."  
  
The gesture is simple, barely worth mentioning. . . and yet, so overwhelmingly tender. Your throat closes. Your thoughts white out. You shut your eyes as the tears keep falling, and when his lips brush softly against the same place underneath your lashes. . . something wrenches inside your chest.  
  
. . .and the world is tipping and spiraling and falling away.  
  
There is no sunshine caressing your face. There are no bright lights or white hallways. And. . . there is no comforting voice of your father. When your center of gravity lurches back into place, and when your sticky eyelids eventually part over bloodshot irises, your doctor is frowning at you from her computer desk.  
  
The two of you are sitting in her small, decorated office, not an examination room. It's very quiet in here. Your fingers are clasped tightly in your lap, fresh rolls of gauze taped to both of your hands. There is always some degree of pain, somewhere, so feeling lousy is nothing new. You can easily ignore the aches and flares of discomfort as you shift in your chair.  
  
"I know that this. . . it's never easy to talk about." She's saying. Dr. Black is a nice, older woman. You've always liked her, as much as you can like anyone. She truly cares about her patients.  
  
But there is something about this conversation that you are _not_ liking, and you haven't even been listening to it.  
  
"Is someone at home hurting you?" She asks carefully. "Or perhaps at work? Whatever you tell me won't leave this room, [Name]. You can trust me."  
  
All of these odd, impromptu injuries would sort of give that impression, wouldn't they? You stare through her and automatically rub at your jaw. Still sore. And still clicking. But it's not too bad. "No." You sigh. "I'm not being abused. It's just. . . it's been a really long week. There were some careless accidents at work, and I fell down my basement stairs." You pause, really not wanting to stay in here and talk. "May I leave? I have an appointment elsewhere."  
  
Evidently, the check-up for this visit has already been finished. Her frown deepens, but she can't exactly make you hang out at the clinic and answer her questions. You grab your jacket and ignore her concerned protests, mumbling out a half-hearted _thank you_ before you're quickly heading for the exit.  
  
And, of course. . . the weather outside is terrible. The wind is frigid and howling and the world is eerie and dark, swirling with violent white underneath the street lamps. Where the hell is your car? The walk from your house into town is more than twelve miles. There is no possible way that you would have even attempted  it.  
  
Squinting, you draw up your hood and glance around the parking lot. . . and there it is. All the way at the end, in the very last space. Figures. With a quiet sigh, you drop your head, shove your hands into your pockets, and slowly trudge through the snow towards the [Car Model].  
  
Two more nights. Only two more nights. . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! I just wanted to take a minute and, first, apologize that this chapter is a little late. The next few might be late, as well, and I just want to give everyone a heads up. Life things are, unfortunately, getting in the way of everything else =(
> 
> Second, I'd like to give another apology because I haven't been able to answer this most recent round of comments. But I want all of you to know how much I appreciate them, and how grateful I am that you have stuck by this story for so long!
> 
> And THIRD, is I just want to thank EVERYONE (completely and enthusiastically) for reading, bookmarking, giving kudos to this fic -everything! Thank you guys so much!


	17. Only Human Sometimes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was unexpected.

Driving home is a nightmare. Which is not surprising, granted how used you are to nightmares by now.  
  
Not a single person is out on the roads, so. . . there is that. You don't have to worry about losing control and crashing into any unsuspecting vehicles along the way. And the way, if anyone was wondering, takes almost a full hour of white knuckles gripping the steering wheel. . . and a permanent knot of tension and anxiety digging between your neck and your bad shoulder.  
  
How long are those survey assholes going to give you and Mark before they send you back again? A day? A few hours? Your stomach revolts at the very thought. You need food, and at least a little bit of sleep, otherwise. . . you're going to be utterly useless when you return to the asylum. As it is, you can barely keep your eyes on the street. All you want is to close them and slide off into oblivion. You aren't sure how you don't,  to be perfectly frank. But you eventually make it home to your worried mother, who can't understand where all of these injuries are coming from, either.  
  
You aren't a clumsy person, and you've never had a problem with coordination. Nor are you so stupid as to cook without using oven mitts. Or to fall down the fucking basement stairs. And yet, in these last five days, you've suffered from more cuts and scrapes and bruises than there are numbers for, a dislocated shoulder, sliced hands, a popped jaw hinge, and lots of minor wounds that, thankfully, haven't needed medical attention.  
  
Good, God. It kind of does seem like you have a secret boyfriend who keeps beating you up, doesn't it?  
  
Mom should know you better than that, though. you hope she does, anyways. Your father. . . he broke your heart long before any boy ever had the chance to, so. You don't do that sort of thing. Date. You never did in high school, and. . . well, you were only eighteen when Dad left. If you ever had any interest in relationships before, you never bothered to act on it. And with what happened to him, you just. . . you lost interest in almost everything after that, including the world and any type of socializing. And you're still not interested.  
  
Really, you're not. But you can't stop thinking about Mark. This. . . whatever this is going on between you. . . it feels like it kind of transcends the boundaries for what qualifies as a normal friendship. Even a normal relationship, maybe. Not that you would know what is actually normal  in a relationship. . .  
  
It just feels different. You don't know how else to describe it. You. . . you care about him. A lot. More than you thought that you could care about anyone. More than you have ever _wanted_ to care about anyone. Kinda late for that, though.  
  
Dammit.  
  
You brush off your mother as gently as you can, and then pull out a plate of leftovers from the fridge. She asks you things that you can't. . . and don't want to, answer -so you take the food up into your room and beg her, please, for some time alone. Your head is just pretty messed up right now, and you need to. . .  you don't know. Listen to some loud music and be by yourself for a while.  
  
After you change into something comfortable, you devour your cold dinner and curl up at the edge of your bed. Wide eyes stare out the window and into the bleak, snowing darkness. But, the silence. . . it's too much. You have to. . . keep busy. Not think about things. Blowing out a breath, you flip through the disc jacket on your nightstand and decide on. . . the first thing that your bandaged hands land on.  
  
Good -your favorite CD. Heavy, brainwashing, but with haunting melodies and lyrics that have kept you sane on too many occasions to count. You stick the disc into your stereo and plug in your favorite headphones, determined to let the music simply wash you out to sea. And, surprisingly. . . it works. The noise is loud and steady and just enough to keep unwanted compulsions from creeping in.  
  
You think that you even manage to sleep for a few hours. When you wake up, though. . . things are strange. Really strange. Like, you're not laying in your own bed, and yet you're not back at Mount Massive, either. The room is wide and spacious. A couple of shelves, some movies and anime books arranged in alphabetical order. White walls dusted with gray and various, framed posters. A large flat-screen set next to a dresser scattered with eyeliner and body lotions on one side, and a comb, a stick of deodorant, and a case and a solution bottle for contact lenses on the opposite.  
  
What the. . ? Whose room is this? Where the hell are you?  
  
Struggling to sit up, blankets slipping down your chest, you notice some. . . rather awkward things. First, you aren't. . . well, you're dressed, but you're not wearing very practical clothes for winter. A thin black wife-beater and a pair of fitted black boy shorts, miles worth of your skin uncomfortably exposed. Except, it feels. . . normal? And it's pretty warm in this room, too. Like it's summer outside, and not cold at all.  
  
Second, you're not. . . um. You're not alone. In the bed. Which just about makes your heart stop when you glance to your left and see bare, faintly freckled shoulders and an unruly mess of black hair. An unruly mess of very familiar  black hair.  
  
Oh, God. Oh -what is this? Holy shit, is that. . . Mark -? What the hell is going on?  
  
You suck in a huge, panicked breath as the body stirs. A groan escapes from the twisted covers, and then the young man is turning over and squinting open sleepy brown eyes. And when they land on you, this. . . this gentle, unbearable smile tugs at the corners of his lips.  
  
"Heya, Shep." Mark murmurs, palming a hand across his forehead. "Damn, it looks kinda late. What time is it. . ?"  
  
No. Please, no. Not this. Please. . .  
  
But they would, wouldn't they? They made you watch what happened to your father again, something that you couldn't stop. Something that you can never  stop, and. . . and something that will forever haunt you because it can't be changed.  
  
And now, this. You have to sit here, and you have to. . . you have to watch. . . A bright future. A happy future. One. . . one that will forever haunt you because it will never exist.  
  
"[Name]?" Mark wonders. His fond grin slips into a concerned frown as he sits up, his hand immediately reaching for you. "[Name], what is it?" He looks a little nervous, and you have to assume that the expression on your face is a rather. . . well, not good one.  
  
Your chest is tight. You can't breathe. You feel. . . you feel like you're wavering over the edge of this great fucking chasm about to swallow you whole. Are you having an anxiety attack? Or a heart attack? Or are you already dead? This beautiful, unattainable place must be the seventh circle of hell.  
  
"Hey, hey. [Name], love. Look at me." His voice is soft but commanding, his touch careful but firm as his hands sink into your shoulders and hold on tight. As if he has had to do this for you countless times before. "You're okay. I'm okay. And we got out. I promise  you that we got out." He whispers, his dark gaze burning endlessly into yours. "We're okay. We're safe."  
  
You stare at him, uncomprehending. Eyes wide and brimming with tears, and your nails digging into his upper arms with this. . . this violent, almost hungry desperation that terrifies you beyond measure.  
  
"But. . . but we didn't." You insist. "We didn't  get out, Mark. Oh, oh, God. . . I can't. . ." Sobs build in your throat and you're shaking, shaking so badly that your teeth are clacking together as he draws you against his chest. "I can't. If this isn't real, if this isn't mine. . . How the hell am I supposed to come back from this?" You demand, weeping stricken, pathetic trails into his neck as he slowly, slowly rocks you. . .  
  
Because, this is it. This is going to be what fucking breaks you. You know it. You're not strong, You're not. . . not enough to move on from this. From everything that you have ever wanted. You can't do it.  
  
"I know. I know." Mark whispers. "I can only assure you that everything is very, very real. This. . . and me. . . fuck. I've been yours since that first stupid argument we had over Mass Effect 3." A chuckle brushes your hair. A gentle, loving kiss to the tip of your ear. "On our very first day at Mount Massive, remember? Man, I still can't believe that you would rather save the Geth over the Quarians, [Name]." Another chuckle, fingers massaging feathery patterns down your spine.  
  
"I. . . have to, buddy." You whisper back, and you close your aching eyes. "Because the Geth didn't ask for what happened to them, you know? They didn't ask to be created, and all they wanted was to live. To. . . to survive. And they only defended themselves when the Quarians attacked. Everyone  should know why they exist in this universe, Mark, and the Geth. . . the Geth are no different. They deserve a chance.  
  
"And, maybe. . . maybe I feel. . ." Drowsiness gradually slips over you as he continues rocking. The motion is steady. . . calming. "Like I can relate to them. On some level. Maybe." You mumble.  
  
A pause of peaceful silence. Warm breath tickling your forehead when Mark kisses you again. "Oh. . . I love you, [Full Name]." He murmurs. "I love you so much. And I can tell you, without a single doubt in my mind, that your unit has the brightest soul that I have ever seen."  
  
You fall asleep in his arms. When you wake. . . when you. . . wake. . .  
  
Blank eyes stare up at a blank, darkened ceiling. The tile floor is freezing cold, and the only things that you can smell are spilled blood and sour chemicals. Your skin itches. You want to fucking scream, but. . . you just lay there. Watching nothing. Listening to liquid dripping into a nearby puddle and the occasional, distant wail drifting from down the hallway.  
  
Don't let them dig into your head.  
  
You don't know why you remember those words now. A piece of simple, unimportant advice in a note, typed up by a desperate, dead young man. How long ago was it? Days. You know that, but it feels like weeks. Years. And that's what these people are doing to you. You don't know how, and you don't know what you can do to stop it, but. . . no. It's probably too late for that, anyways. They have access to your every painful memory, your every embarrassing wish, your every desperate prayer. .  
  
. . .they've already fucked up your head beyond repair.  
  
There are footsteps, quick and a little unsteady, somewhere to your left. And as you make yourself sit up, as you force your face into something more. . . more human-looking, there is a sudden hand on your shoulder and lost, dark eyes finding yours.  
  
"Those bastards made me watch." Is the first thing out of his mouth. "No matter what I turned on: my computer, my television, even my goddamn cell phone, [Name] -I had to watch what you did when you were alone in here -while I was stuck with that asshole doctor. While I was. . . so fucking useless. . ."  
  
Mark clenches his jaw, tries to keep that last shred of self-control from shattering, and the only thing that you can think to do is to throw your arms around him -your own thoughts still tangled up in that. . . that dream. . .  
  
No. You can't. You can't let yourself slip away.  
  
"Don't. Please, don't think about that. It's just one more night after this." You whisper. Your lips graze his ear and his grip around your waist tightens. "One more night, and it's over. We're so close to finishing this, Mark." The words are hollow on your tongue, but you inject as much feeling into them that you are possibly capable of right now.  
  
You two are so fucking close.  
  
He buries his face in the side of your neck for a long moment. And then he pulls back with a muted sigh and a tired smile. "I know. I know. One more night." He says, and. . . he still has the energy to have faith. Even after five whole nights of this utter bullshit, you can still glimpse it glowing behind the haunted, jagged edges of his exhaustion: he still hopes for that happy ending. He still believes.  
  
. . .and you honestly appreciate that more than you ever thought was possible. You. . . you need   that more than you ever thought was possible.  
  
"I found the key for the elevator." He continues, trying to sound upbeat. "We should probably go."  
  
You nod as he tugs you to your feet, and you don't look at the wasted bodies of Brittany and Tom when you turn to him. "Yeah, we have to leave. We can't afford to lose any more time."  
  
"Nope." Mark slides his fingers through yours. He clears his throat and takes a minute to simply. . . stare at you, his expression soft but entirely unreadable, before he drags his gaze to the open doors by the dumbwaiter and leads you inside.  
  
"Got a plan, Garrus?" You ask him, when he hits a button on the panel with the end of the flashlight. It's so hard to keep your mind grounded down here, and not. . . not back there. In that dream-world.  
  
You're trying. God, you are trying, but. . . fuck.  
  
He hesitates for the briefest second. "Oh -always, Shep." A quick, strained grin. "Don't you worry." And he proceeds to explain that the elevator will only take you down a single floor, because Trager isn't here to get stuck in the top grate and break the damn thing. Regardless of what happens, you guys going to hit the ground running and not stop for anything.  
  
More or less.  
  
Surprisingly, though? You're not. Worried. You're not sure if you're even scared right now. You have more confidence in Mark than you do in anyone. He might not have an actual plan, not really, but you think that running is your best option. Obviously, you can't afford to be reckless. . . yet, you also can't afford to be as careful.  
  
Nothing strange or dangerous happens when the elevator stops at the next floor -it just refuses to go anywhere beyond. And the key is stuck in the panel, too. Guess that you guys don't need it, granted that Mark ignores it to pull open the grate as soon as the lift grinds to a halt, and the two of you are hurrying through another room with checkered tile floors and into a gloomily lit corridor.  
  
"Do you think there are many participants left?" You can't help wondering. "Or any?"  
  
"It's. . . hard to say." He frowns. "We have to assume that there are, and that we're going to come across them sooner rather than later. By this point, whoever is still hanging around has got to be more than a little desperate. Willing to do anything. . . everything, whatever, to get the fuck out of here for good." His voice is hard, unflinching.  
  
The we're no exception to that  goes unspoken. You can feel it in the strength of his hand, see it in the tension in his stride, the new threads of silver-bright steel in his narrowed eyes. Being forced to watch what you did while he was incapacitated has really done something to him. And you can't blame him for that, of course not.  
  
But you hate  what this is doing to the both of you. What being exposed to all of this shit is . . . is turning you in to. While you follow after him down a few flights of narrow stairs, you try and think of something stupid or clever to say. Anything at all to erase a fraction of that darkness lurking in his expression. . .  
  
And you can't. This just doesn't feel. . . real. You've been experiencing a sense of spiraling disconnection for a while. Since before this mess even started, actually. Your brain is functioning on some level that the rest of you just isn't aware of -and you can't quite. . . sync everything up properly. All you know is exhaustion and a distant, echoing rage pulsing in time with your heart.  
  
. . .and an all-consuming desire to protect this kid that you're following into the abyss.  
  
There is a gap in the wall at the bottom of the stairs. Mark quickly shines the Mag-Lite through, just enough to get a glimpse of what appears to be a rather well-kept, empty office, before you guys are squeezing by the wooden frames and into somewhere new. You don't pause to search the desks or the cabinets this time. Pretty sure that neither of you care. You have one battery left, but you'd rather not go out of your way to look for more. If you stumble across any in plain sight, great. If not. . . you'll manage. You have so far, haven't you? Again, you aren't worried.  
  
Mark snags one from on top of a file, anyways, and presses it into your free hand with a small, lopsided smile. "What would we do without Shirley, huh?"  
  
You stare at him. "Uh. Did you. . . name our Mag-Lite?"  
  
He shrugs, a faint rise of color in his cheeks as we head into the adjoining office room, which is much bigger than the first. "I might have." He huffs. ". . .stop looking at me like that."  
  
Your lips twitch and you shake your head. "This is how I always look at you, buddy."  
  
He says something under his breath that you don't catch, but when he averts his gaze from yours to stare out the wall of interior windows to your right, his face is a brilliant shade of red. You let the matter go, only because you don't want to embarrass him. At least, not while you guys are in the middle of this. So you just laugh at him instead and he punches you in the arm.  
  
"Oh, you'll get yours, Shepard." He warns, his eyes black and glittering oddly as he lowers his voice. "I don't know when, or even where. . . but it will  happen. Make no mistake about that."  
  
And. . . you can instantly tell that it isn't to be dramatic, or even to make you laugh. His voice is a scratchy purr against your ears and dousing your veins in gasoline.  
  
You lean in close to him when you pause by the open doorway, closer than you've ever been comfortable with getting to anyone. And your heart gives a nervous, stuttering thump  against your chest when he doesn't automatically step away. In fact. . . he draws in a breath, his gaze searing across yours like a paper-cut.  
  
And, if anything. . . he seems to sway a bit closer without realizing it.  
  
But before you have the chance to say a word. . . which is definitely for the best in your current situation, you instinctively turn your head, a chill bleeding through the heat in your face.  
  
". . .um, wait." You swallow. "Do you hear something?" You focus your attention on the rather large room beyond the office doorway. Or try to, because your hands are shaking and your heart is speeding sixty over the limit and you think that you're about to choke on your tongue.  
  
"Like what?" Mark eventually rasps. He sounds as unsteady as you are trying not  to feel. And it's not working very well.  
  
Dammit! You're usually careful to the point of obsessive when it comes to keeping those emotions under control. Especially  the inappropriate ones. And yet, when you're around Mark. . . you're not. Fuck -you're not careful at all, and you hate  that. He makes. . . makes you feel so. . .  
  
You don't know. He just makes you feel so much. It's hard to. . . deal with, sometimes.  
  
Scowling, you mind the bandages on your hands and grip the side of the busted frame. "It was faint." You peer out into the yellow light, but the room is empty. From what you can tell, and yet. . . at the end. . .  
  
"Maybe, a voice?" You squint towards the scattered pockets of shadows by the far exit doors, and another wall of interior windows. Still, nothing. "Or -?" The words freeze against your teeth. Because it isn't just a voice: there is someone out there fucking singing.  
  
Mark cocks his head to listen, and then lets out a quiet groan. "Oh, no. Man, not this  lunatic." He scrubs a rough hand over his head. "No fucking way. . ."  
  
You shoot him a sharp look. "What? You know who it is?"  
  
"Yep, sure do." He grumbles. "I figured that since we've been mainly playing through the game, and not the DLC, we wouldn't just. . . randomly stumble across him. God-dammit." He curses again. "He better not have some. . . some messed up wedding dress or an aisle this time. You know, I'm still  scarred from what he did -or tried to do, anyways- to Waylon Park." A shudder courses through him, and you're actually not sure if he is exaggerating. . . or what.  
  
"Uh. . . huh?" You blink. "This conversation just took a turn into the surreal. . . more so than usual, buddy. What the hell are you talking about?" Because, whatever it is, you're not sure if you should be wary or amused. Or both?  
  
The two of you creep out into the wide room, sticking close to the nearside wall. Whoever is singing isn't in this particular area, but the man is still close enough for you to have to watch the level of our own voices.  
  
"His name is Eddie." Mark mutters. "I don't remember his last name, but I think that his nickname was the Groom. Obviously, because of the whole stupid wife  obsession that he had with Waylon. . ." He angles you towards an archway at the edge of the room, up on the left. You have to dart through open, vulnerable space before you're safely back inside the shadows -thankfully with no one around to see you two. And then he clicks on the Mag-Lite to do a sweep.  
  
Nothing. Great. And the singing is almost inaudible, too. Are they moving farther away? You really fucking hope so.  
  
"Okay, you're gonna have to start at the beginning. . . or something." You snort under your breath. "Or at least start with this guy and his wife obsession-thing, because, hey. That sounds like it could almost be mildly entertaining. And entertaining would be good for us, buddy."  
  
You can practically feel   Mark roll his eyes, which draws a grin across your face when he glances over his shoulder at you.  
  
"Really, Shep? Now?" He huffs, sounding both overwhelmingly fond. . . and incredibly exasperated as you guys edge around the corner and navigate down a scarcely lit hallway. "Escaping this place with our sanity and vital organs intact isn't enough entertainment for you?" He bumps you with his arm. "You can be so. . . so. . ."  
  
"What? So. . . unbelievable?" You interrupt. "Yeah, I've been told." Your grins widens into a lopsided smile.  
  
"Damn right." He grunts, and what happens next is. . . just. . .  
  
It's easy. Shockingly easy. And swift, seamless, almost painfully natural. Like it's been the most common of occurrences over these last six nights for him to reach back, his broad palm fitting snugly around the nape of your neck as he drags you up beside him. . . and brushes his lips over yours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I am *so* sorry that this has been taking me so long. I swear that I'm going to finish this story, but these last few months have been rough for me. Sometimes, everything just sucks.
> 
> I love and appreciate all of you so much for the continued support, and I promise that I'm going to start replying to everyone's comments again, too. Thank you so much for sticking around, and I hope this chapter was worth the wait =)


	18. Moments in Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good things are never meant to last.

Oh. Um. . . wow. For a few seconds, you don't really think that either of you understand what the hell is happening. Your eyes are round and unblinking, your pulse probably at a dead stop against your trembling limbs. Mark is staring back and looking equally as startled with himself -or attempting to, at least.  
  
Because to look at one another, your sights kind of have to cross, and everything is blurry and fuzzy around the edges and the bottom of his glasses are pressing into your cheeks and you can't do  anything except fucking stand there until you both jump back in the same instance -as if you were electrocuted by each other.  
  
The whole thing can't have lasted longer than. . . three seconds. Four, maybe. Your head is entirely blank, mouth slightly open as you gawk at him.  
  
"Oh, shit. Um. . .shit." He stammers, directing the beam of the Mag-Lite down to the floor,  but not before you glimpse how brilliantly his face his blushing.  
  
"I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking. . . I mean, it was just sort of automatic, you know?" He continues to babble, raking a hand over his hair. "I don't want to make things awkward with us, and. . . yeah. I probably just did, didn't I? Fuck. I'm so sorry, [Name]. Can we, um. . . possibly forget this ever happened? Please?" His voice cracks when you keep staring at him.  
  
"I'm such an idiot." He mutters as he turns away.  
  
You know you're not thinking straight. You can't, really. But you also can't. . . stop yourself, either. Before he can move completely out of reach, your arm is lashing towards him and your fingers are gripping the collar of his shirt. It happens fast. You don't think that he's expecting you to do this any more than you are, which is probably why he offers no resistance.  
  
And then you're squeezing your eyes shut and your arms are around his neck as you attempt to kiss him again. It's a very uncomfortable fit, your teeth roughly clicking together and his glasses are once again digging into your face. . . and you don't care. It's weird and a sort of painful and you might not have any idea on what you're doing, but. . .  
  
You suddenly feel him tilt his head, his hands sliding up into your hair. And as he kisses you back, everything just. . . aligns. His mouth slips over yours and you feel like you're drowning, like you're spiraling out of control. Sparking heat and a surge of hunger -your motions quick and desperate in the shadows.  
  
God-dammit. _God-dammit_.  What are you guys doing? You can't. . . _fuck_.  
  
An inferno of restless energy coils between you as the two of you greedily try to cling tighter, to press even closer -and when you are finally forced to break apart, you're seeing stars.  
  
"Mark." You choke, your forehead bumping gently into his. "Mark, we have to. . ."  
  
"I know, I know." He says, but he doesn't let you go. "We have to keep going."  
  
You are just. . . stunned. Dizzy with adrenaline, locking onto his fierce gaze as he grabs your hand. Right then, you know. You know with an aching strike against your chest and a nervous tremor through your heart that you have fallen so fucking hard for this kid as you both start to run. There was probably no way around it, and as much as you pushed it away. . . well. You don't think that there is any escaping it.  
  
Dammit. What a lousy time to come to your fucking senses.  
  
You turn two corners and rush down another empty hall before the stinging, acrid scents of melted plastic and burning wood finishes congeal inside your nose. Mark stumbles to a halt, and you're right behind him.  
  
Gotta keep it together, [Name]. Focus.  
  
"What the hell is that?" You squint through the thin streams of smoke drifting down from the ceiling. "Aw, we're not gonna get blasted into another pile of intenstines, are we?"  
  
He snorts. "Not that I know of -but who the fuck really knows anything, anymore? We do have to climb through those windows." He points upwards, to where the smoke is the thickest, and there are inviting bloody smears that lead to the line of glass panes above our heads.  
  
". . .into the room on fire?" You ask, voice dry.  
  
"Kind of, sort of. . . yeah."  
  
"All right. Just making sure."  
  
Mark shakes his head, a grin twitching at his mouth as he gives you a push towards the shelving unit. "Okay, okay. Any more unnecessary comments from the Peanut Gallery?"  
  
"Probably, but not right now." You stare up at the open windows, and then down at your bandaged hands. As if to argue its own silent protest, your bad shoulder floods with sharp, painful jabs as you reach for the shelves. "How are your ribs?" You ask. Deftly ignoring the discomfort while you climb. "It. . . it wasn't your lungs, was it?"  
  
"Nah." He says behind you, trying to sound casual. "A couple sprains, a couple minor fractures. I've dealt with worse. Nothing that's going to slow us down."  
  
Right. You should have expected that. Sighing quietly, you let a silent minute pass before you ask him. . . something else. Something that has been bothering you for days. "Hey, Mark?"  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"After. . . after we leave the asylum, but just before we wake up at home. . ?" You swallow, clearing the second shelf and wincing when you grab onto the third, and final one. "Do you go somewhere else? Somewhere, well. . ." The words catch in your chest and I bite the inside of your mouth.  
  
He doesn't answer for a while. And then: "You do, too?" He says, his voice so soft, so unsure, that you almost miss it.  
  
"Yeah." You mumble. "I do."  
  
Silence.  
  
You're not going to pry, not unless he wants to tell you, but there is _something_ that you have to know. "What do you think it is? And why. . . do you think we go there?" You whisper, your trembling fingers finally latching onto the edge of the open frame.  
  
Again, it takes Mark some time to respond.  
  
"I. . ." He hesitates, and you glance over your shoulder at him. "Maybe, it's. . . a way to cope with all of the stress. Mental, emotional. . . whichever." His dark, shadowed eyes flicker up to yours. "Maybe, our minds just take us to some place that we feel safe. With people that. . . make us feel  safe, to keep us from. . . you know." He shrugs.  
  
"Makes sense." You mutter as you turn back to the windows. But you still can't help the knife of disappointment cutting at your side when you hold your breath and climb through the open space. You don't really know _what_ you wanted to hear from him.  
  
You just. . . you hope that you can go back to that white place. One last time, before the end.  
  
It looks like what used to be a cafeteria, the giant, flaming room that you land inside. And when you say _flaming_. . . yeah, you're not kidding. Almost the entire space is consumed with smoke and crackling fire, and as you hit the ground, you cover your nose and mouth with the hem of your shirt and try to stay as low as possible. The heat is fucking unbearable. The pressure is tight across your chest, burning the oxygen straight from your lungs when you gasp in a breath.  
  
"Holy. . . shit." You wheeze.  
  
Seconds later, Mark drops down next to you. His hand automatically scrabbles for your arm, and you grip his shoulder to keep him from losing his balance. He grimaces, tries to mask his own discomfort. "Always wanted to know how it felt to be roasted alive." He coughs. "Gotta say, I'm not disappointed."  
  
"Uh, personally? I'd rather keep my eyebrows from melting off of my face." You tangle your fingers through his and, with a sharp laugh, he begins to lead you through the maze of blazing tables and chairs.  
  
"Shep, you would still look adorable without any eyebrows. Trust me."  
  
You scowl and look away from his smug grin, thankful that your face is already red enough to disguise the blush flooding across your cheeks. "Uh-huh. We are  heading towards the exit, right?" You grumble.  
  
Before he can reply, likely with something dramatic or sarcastic. . . or both, you notice a prone figure slumped against an undamaged chair through the haze in front of you. You quickly shake your head and point to the person, and Mark remains silent as he frowns, following the gesture with squinting eyes.  
  
This one looks like a young woman. The two of you creep steadily closer -unfortunately, this way is the only clear path through the flames- but she doesn't move. Her burnt, swollen hands are clasped between shaking knees, and her dull gaze is fixed somewhere on the floor. She gives no sign at all that she hears you behind her wild, dark curly hair.  
  
Mark tips his chin towards a table about four feet to your right. You guys could probably crawl underneath it and avoid the girl altogether. . .  
  
But then she looks up. Sharp, tawny eyes spear through yours, and you stop. Because, there is something. . . in there. Something haunted and knowing, vicious and intelligent. Something that. . . reminds me of how you looked, the last time that you glanced in a mirror.  
  
"I had to do it." She says, voice hollow. "Burn it. All of it. After what they put us through."  
  
Mark shoots you a warning glance as you stand up, but you don't really feel threatened by this girl. Granted, the two of you could certainly take her. . . and yet, no. That's not the point. You can see it in her face that she. . . she has lost absolutely everything. And she will sit here and burn for as long as Mount Massive does.  
  
Warily, Mark straightens up. His crosses his muscled arms over his chest and narrows his eyes at the woman. "What. . . what happened to you?" He might wear an intimidating expression, but you know that most of it is only for show. There is still genuine concern veiled behind his shadowed eyes, though. . . his newly tempered sense of distrust makes his handsome face look fierce, too. And dangerous.  
  
. . .and dangerous is a really, really good look on him.  
  
"What do you think? This fucking _nightmare_ happened to me." The young woman doesn't even spare him a glance. Her attention is solely focused on you. "Won't be long, now." She says, wringing her reddened hands. "It'll be you or him. Or maybe both? Both don't usually work in the same pairing. . . or are they planning something different with you two?"  
  
Your brows furrow. "Yeah, not that this isn't weird. . . but what the hell are you talking about?"  
  
For a long, disquieting moment, she simply stares at you. And then she sighs and shakes her head. "Haven't you been wondering what all of this means? Why this fucking survey even _matters?_ Why the participants are always one male and one female? Or why the guys are always the ones left for dead in here, while there never seem to be as many girls?"  
  
You and Mark exchange bemused frowns. Honestly. . . no. You haven't wondered about any of that because, quite frankly? You don't care. And going from the flare of annoyance in his expression, Mark doesn't seem to care, either. Not anymore.  
  
"Will knowing the answers get us out of here?" He tries not to demand. "Otherwise, I fail to see the relevance."  
  
The woman shrugs. "Might be useful to know, anyways. I haven't figured out all of it, but. . . the guys who aren't butchered by the Variants or whoever are brought to the Morphogenic Engine. Assholes probably want to get the Walrider back under their fucking control again." She swallows, her tone thick with bitterness.  
  
"And, the girls -the strong ones, the violent ones- they're. . . taken. Somewhere. Murkoff is using them for their newest project -whatever the fuck that is." Her deadened amber eyes narrow at you once again.  
  
"I found some papers that claim you  are their favorite candidate for it." She pauses, and then sounds like she is reciting something from a textbook: "[Full Name]; aged 24. The Wrathful. Test Subject #237-A. Very slow to trust and build personal relationships; afflicted with post traumatic stress disorder and/or severe emotional stunting caused by the suicide of her father. Shows signs of a possible schizoid personality disorder; could prove useful? Must provoke with bodily threats to her partner for best results."  
  
She can't be. . . fucking serious. . .  
  
You unconsciously copy Mark and tighten your arms over your shirt, a painful uneasiness digging against your flaring temper -ever close to the surface, these days. "Say what, now?" You grit your teeth in the same moment that Mark snarls: "You, shut the fuck  up!"  
  
The young woman blinks, entirely unphased by your reactions. "It's just what I read." She shrugs again. "Believe, don't believe. Whatever. I really don't care. But you should at least try and escape before they catch you. Or before the whole damn building goes up. You can get out through the kitchen."  
  
She hesitates, before slumping forward in her chair and burying her face in her hands. "And keep each other safe, okay?" Is her last, barely audible mumble. "Like. . . I couldn't do for Omid."  
  
"Fuck." You hear Mark grunt. He palms a hand over his hair and. . . he just walks away, the line of his shoulders one taut, rigid line.  
  
You're two steps behind him, glancing back at the girl with a confusing rush of frustration and grief and. . . and fear, coursing through your limbs. Clogging up your head with things that you don't want to know, things that you don't want to remember. Fuck -you can't do  this right now. . .  
  
You guys make it through the cafeteria and into an empty, lit hallway. As soon as you're safe from the heat and the flames, Mark spins on his heels and slams an open palm against the wall.  
  
"Who the fuck  does that chick think she is?" He hisses, his dark eyes black and crackling with lightning as they meet yours. "She had no goddamn right saying those things about you, whether she read them from some fucking file or not."  
  
You rub your hand over the back of your neck and avert your gaze, a flush of shame warming your face. But you don't miss the flicker of surprise through his rage when you don't even try to agree with him. . . or to defend yourself from her accusations. Your sarcastic tongue has been tied into knots, because. . . well. It's all true, isn't it? Murkoff has done their research, apparently.  
  
"[Name]. . ?" Mark questions, his tone unsure. He reaches for you. . .  
  
. . .and you can't bear  to hear him sound like that, let alone have him _look_ at you like that. So you turn away, towards the left of the hallway and a mess of stacked metal tables blocking the rest of the path.  
  
"I'm fucked up, buddy. There is no getting around that." You manage roughly, brushing away the angry sting from your eyes. "It's probably why I was fucking picked for this survey in the first place. Those Murkoff assholes wanted someone nice and normal paired up with a goddamn headcase. It doesn't matter. I don't care."  
  
"No, no. Don't you _dare_ start with that." Mark grabs your arm and, suddenly, he has you up against the wall, his hands pinned flat to the cement on either side of your head. "Because _I_ care, and it's all bullshit." He says harshly. "You are not a headcase, [Name]. You are intelligent, and beautiful, and clever as all fuck -okay? And you, you. . . _dammit_."  He leans in close, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut as he presses his forehead into yours.  
  
"You have to be one of the strongest fucking people that I have ever met." He whispers, his voice utterly wrecked. "And I don't know what I would do without you." His mouth brushes over your bottom lip before he kisses you -soft, and sweet. "So don't you listen to her, or anyone else who tries to tell you otherwise. You listen to _me_. _I_ am the one who knows you. Understand?"  
  
How does he do this to you? Every single time? How can he keep you from falling into the abyss as easily as he can turn the lights on in the darkest corners of your own miserable head? How can such an incredible person even _exist_ in this hell?  
  
. . .and how did you get so lucky as to have him care about you, as much as you care about him? Even if this only lasts. . . for this night and the next. Whatever happens, you will know that this was real. For a time, you will know. . . that he was truly yours.  
  
You clumsily kiss him in reply and then wrap your arms around him tight, just long enough for the sincerity of his words to sink into your veins and bring you back to life. ". . .thank you." You mumble into his neck.  
  
Mark runs his fingers through your hair before you both pull away, a wry, almost-smile on his lips. "You don't have to thank me. It's the truth -plain and simple."  
  
You shake your head, trying not to smile back.  
  
Naturally, the moment is cut short by the return of the singing voice. Um, Eddie? Is that what Mark called him? The two of you look to the tables, and to the small gap of space between them on your left.  
  
"You know. . . you never really told me what his deal was." You raise an eyebrow.  
  
Mark heaves an exaggerated sigh as you slowly, and carefully, approach the tables. The other hall to the right is a dead end, so there is no other way for you to go but towards the voice. How unsurprising.  
  
"Okay. In short, he is obsessed with having a guy for a wife. He sorta. . . straps them down, and. . . and castrates them." Mark winces. "Because he thinks doing that will help his victim carry his kids or something? Like biology plays no part at all in that process? I have no fucking clue. But the man is seriously fucked up, so let's hope that we don't see him. Ever."  
  
"Yeah, all right." You grimace. "That. . . wasn't as entertaining as I was hoping it would be." Not to mention, the accompanying mental images that explanation produced were not great. Not at all.  
  
He rolls his eyes, a smirk twitching at his upper lip. After a moment, you guys peer through the gap. There isn't anyone on the other side, from what you can tell -but the singing is growing louder by the second.  
  
"We have to do it." He mutters, and looks over at you with a grim expression. "Quick and painless, just like. . . like ripping off a band-aid."  
  
"Sure, why not?" You take a breath and squeeze through the space before he can protest. Or before you can think twice about it. "Rip off the band-aid and expose the raw, bleeding wound underneath."  
  
"Have I mentioned how much I love your cheerful optimism?" He chuckles behind you.  
  
"Yes. You do at least twice a night. I'm pretty inspiring, huh?" You can't help laughing when he does. His quiet giggles are incredibly contagious, even in tense situations. Probably more so in tense situations, actually.  
  
It's dark on the other side of the tables, so Mark immediately clicks on the Mag-Lite to check the corridors. You're about to start jogging ahead as he flicks the beam from end to end when the light. . . sorta. . . catches on something. A very tall, broad-shouldered something lounging by one of the far doorways. Likely the doorway that you guys have to take.  
  
You drop into a clumsy crouch and Mark quickly turns off the flashlight as he follows suit behind you. Did the figure. . . did it see you? Or hear you? Are you still okay? Fuck! Your eyes are wide, your pulse drumming wildly against your throat as you stare at the place where you think  it is. How the hell are you guys going to get around it? If you aren't already screwed?  
  
You hold your breath as the seconds painfully tick away. Mark grips your upper arm with reassuring strength, but it isn't enough. Fingers are abruptly squeezing around your throat, yanking you to your feet, and you hear a low, smooth voice purr: _Oh, is that you, darling?_   before you can even understand what the hell is happening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel so terrible for neglecting this story. These last few months haven't been great, and I just recently lost my job, on top of everything else. . . And to be honest? I haven't felt like doing much of anything, lately, and I sincerely apologize for the long absence because of that. I'm really trying to get back on schedule.
> 
> I want to thank everyone, deeply and truly, who has sent me messages and comments of praise and encouragement. I appreciate them more than I could ever say, and I'm so grateful that this story means so much to so many of you -to stay with it for so long. Thank you, and I'm sorry, again. I do hope everyone enjoys this chapter. =)


	19. Let Shadows Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, sir. The wedding has been cancelled.

You are getting really fucking tired of people always trying to strangle you. Bypassing the stages of panic and terror completely, your rocket-fueled rage explodes outwards like a carbonated bottle under too much pressure. You claw and kick at the man choking you, and not even a moment later you hear Mark on his feet -and then the heavy _thwack_ of the flashlight cracking against a skull.  
  
The man grunts in pain, and his hands loosen just enough for you to slip through. Air rushes back into your lungs with agonizing heat. The darkness spins, white splotches dancing across your eyes.  
  
"Don't you fucking touch her, asshole!" Mark growls.  
  
"But, darling -I'm doing this for us." The man wheezes. "I have to get rid of the whore, so we can finally be together!"  
  
. . .what?  
  
You're stumbling backwards, but still have the good sense to smash the heel of your high top against the side of one of his kneecaps. He lets out a furious howl and, while he's distracted, you quickly tug Mark down the hall. Does that jerk even count as a Variant? Is he someone that you guys have to run from, or someone like Trager? Can he actually be defeated by a participant?  
  
"Come on!" You rasp, your frustration mounting as Mark struggles to get back to him. "I'm not sure if we can even do anything about that asshole, so we should just go."  
  
"He was fucking _strangling_ you. . . and he called you. . . that motherfucker!" Mark is so upset that he can't form complete sentences. He spits and curses as the two of you trip down the hallway, considering you have to lose the freak behind you and not broadcast your whereabouts with the flashlight.  
  
Which makes running blind around the corners. . . kind of terrifying. And you also have no idea where you are, or how the hell to get to the kitchens. You are too busy trying not to trip over or into anything to navigate. Not to mention, if you let go of Mark, he may or may not decide to turn and charge at the man who. . . you assume is Eddie? Limping along and calling out for his precious _darling_ in a falsely sympathetic voice -?  
  
"I know that you didn't mean to hurt me!" He insists. "It's that _whore._ She's poisoned your mind against us!"  
  
You shake your head, unable to believe this jackass. Really? Chris Walker scares the living shit out of you, but. . . this guy just makes your skin crawl. He must have bruised your windpipe pretty badly, too, because it hurts to even swallow.  
  
"I am going to kill him." Mark grunts under his breath. "If I get the chance. . . I'll do it."  
  
. . .should you be flattered by that declaration, or a little alarmed? Four nights ago, you would never have expected to hear those words pass his lips, about _anyone_. Mark has _always_ been the nicer of the two of you. The more compassionate. The one most affected by what the other participants have to deal with. But, this. . . this vindictive edge to his personality isn't him.  
  
Or is it? You know him, and yet. . . you don't really know him at all, do you? You have been through almost six nights of dangerous and highly stressful events together. What you have shared, what this is truly bringing out in the both of you. . . could be anything. Good. Bad. Moral. Immoral. . . a mix of all of the above?  
  
So you just bite your tongue and keep quiet. You honestly don't know what to say to that.  
  
You and Mark round a corner and instantly speed up as the lighting gets a little brighter. You're still not sure if this is the right way. . . but it's been the _only_ way so far. Which means that it must be right. You hope? You lead Mark through the doorways at the end of the hall, underneath a headless body swinging from ceiling, and then decide on a sharp left when given the choice. Also because you spot a tiny space between more stacked shelves and tables in that direction, too. And those small passages haven't steered you guys wrong, yet.  
  
"Hey, down here." You urge, giving his hand a squeeze. "We can probably hide somewhere behind that junk until the coast is clear." Your voice is still kind of strained, and going by the flash of anger that you catch in his face, Mark can hear it, as well.  
  
He grits his jaw as you two begin to slow your pace. "I'm fine, buddy." You tell him, before he can open his mouth. "Really, I'm okay. And I'll be even better once we get to the kitchens. He can't chase us forever, you know?"  
  
You make him go through the space first, though he glances back as he slides by the tables. "Fine, fine. But if he catches up to us again, that's it. I swear to God, that will be it." He tells you, eyes like darkened steel. "He isn't Walker, [Name]. I can fucking take him. I mean, Trager was killed, right? How difficult can it be?"  
  
"Well, yeah. . ." You slip through after him, an unpleasant sensation filling your stomach. "But it wasn't like this, Mark. It. . ." You don't know. You don't know how to justify what you did, even if Trager _was_ pitting kids against each other in sick death matches. Yeah, he deserved to die. No fucking question about that.  
  
But. . . shit. You pretty much went into rage mode because he beat up and drugged Mark. And now, Mark only wants to do the same thing because Eddie tried to kill _you_. You have no right to tell him what is right or wrong in this situation. You have no idea what _is_ right or wrong, anymore. The conventional rules of society just don't apply to Mount Massive.  
  
God-dammit.  
  
"Okay." You finally sigh. "Okay." It doesn't seem like you'll be able to talk him out of this. "But _only_ if he catches up to us again. Corners us or something. And, we'll. . . we'll think of something, I guess."  
  
Mark stares at you, surprise softening his angered features. "We will?"  
  
"Yes, you idiot." You thump him gently on the head. "You think that I would really let you do something so stupid, alone? Come on. . ."  
  
He gives you this huge, ridiculous smile before the two of you peer into the single, door-less room almost hidden by the metal obstructions. Dark, but not dark enough to warrant the need for the Mag-Lite, and the left side of the wall is lined with. . . bathtubs?  
  
"What the hell is this?" You frown. "No, wait. I've learned my lesson. Don't answer that, please."  
  
Mark huffs a chuckle and shakes his head. "Damn. And all this time I thought you actually _liked_ my gruesome stories."  
  
"Well, yeah. I do. But I also just like listening to you talk about. . . anything, really." You shrug, a reddish flush burning your ears.  
  
". . .anything?" He raises a suggestive eyebrow. "In that case, how about -?"  
  
"No!" Your face warms to a near impossible degree. "No, no. Not that I don't appreciate the enthusiasm or anything. But, um. It's just probably not the best time for it, buddy." You quickly look back into to the empty room, though you do hear him say something about enjoying the fact that he can make you blush so easily under his breath.  
  
Something that you are _not_ as thrilled about. Because when you're flustered, you get stupid and tongue-tied, unpleasantly easy to read, and. . . it's not great. Thankfully, he doesn't continue with that line of embarrassing conversation.  
  
The cold, frosted moonlight shines through the barred windows behind the tubs, illuminating dirty white porcelain and pools of red glinting across the tiles beneath them. Yeah. . . this place can't have been used for anything nice. And there are still bodies in a few. Or parts of bodies, at least.  
  
"Oh, that's right." Mark says. He squints towards the end of the room and points at the open doorway, where the yellow lights seem to be the brightest. "We have to turn on the sprinklers? I mean, there was _something_ about a sprinkler system in the game, but. . ." He rubs an irritated hand over his hair. "God-dammit. I'm sorry, Shep."  
  
"Hey, don't worry about it." You shrug. "We're smart. We'll figure it out."  
  
And then he has to give you this _look_ that has you scowling and blushing all over again.  
  
Behind you guys, though, the tables suddenly begin to rattle. You turn around sharply enough to almost fall into the door frame, your heart seizing up against your sore throat. And there he is, well over six foot and two hundred-plus pounds. Dark hooded eyes and a sultry, snake-like smile.  
  
"Please, darling. Don't run from me." Eddie croons. He reaches through the gap, too broad to actually fit, and you shove Mark into the bathtub room before those bloodied fingers can snag his clothing. "I was told that I could keep you if I gave them the whore, did you know? Isn't that wonderful news?"  
  
"Stop _calling_ her that!" Mark snarls over your shoulder. "You aren't giving her to anyone, do you fucking hear me?" He tries to move around you, but you push him back with a flood of rough, frustrated adrenaline.  
  
"GO!" You yell. "He hasn't caught us yet, and we have to take advantage of that! Please, Mark; we have to go!"  
  
Maybe he sees the desperation in your expression. Or he feels it in your anxious struggle to pull him into the room with you. Whatever the case, he curses again at the man, and then lets you pull him through the blood as you both run the length of the strange area.  
  
"I'm sorry." You hear him grunt. "He just makes me so mad that I can't even think straight, [Name]."  
  
"I know. Believe me, I know." You reassure him. "You don't have to apologize."  
  
The two of you make it to the far room, which is -naturally- a dead end. Mark tugs on the lever that leads up into the piping system, but other than that. . . there is nothing else in here. And by that, there is also nowhere else to go but back the way you came. And you know that isn't the best idea. Not with Mark so volatile, so near the breaking point.  
  
Like you have a fucking choice.  
  
But when you guys approach the shelves and that small gap between them again, Eddie is nowhere to be found. Nor can you even hear him singing. It's a relief -but it makes you anxious, too. You and Mark have to get out of this area before he reappears, if he isn't actually waiting for you already. . .  
  
"So. . . where is the other lever for the sprinkler system?" You quietly ask, trying to distract a rather tense Mark as you follow him into the longer section of the hallway. "Because there must be at least two. Or maybe three? But not any more than that, right?"  
  
"Um, just one more." He eventually answers. He sounds distracted; his  eyes careful and narrowed while he scans the shadows ahead. "We'll find it, though. I'm not worried. It should be close."  
  
But the tight, knuckle-white grip that he has around the Mag-Lite worries you. Your brows furrow, and you frown at the back of his head as he takes a step into the lead. You keep your mouth shut again, though. You might have smart-ass tendencies, but you also know when to keep quiet and move onto something else.  
  
Not that. . . you really know what else _to_ say right now.  
  
You start walking a faster as you near the doorway that the both of you came in through ten minutes ago, back underneath the headless body swinging from the ceiling. Mark gestures to a faded red sign on the far wall to your left.  
  
"Yeah, yeah -the laundry room! That's where the other lever was, Shep." He flashes you a familiar toothy smile over his shoulder. The one that makes some of the knots in your chest loosen; the one that has you grinning back automatically, because you just can't help it. Because, when he smiles. . . at the risk of sounding like a horrible sap? Well, it almost makes you forget about all of the awful things that you guys have been through.  
  
Almost.  
  
"Not surprised at all that you figured it out, buddy." You beam, clapping him on the arm. "I would have preferred to just let the whole asylum burn down, of course. . . but I take it that isn't an option?"  
  
"I know. I was disappointed about that when I played the game, too." He huffs. "We have to make a point to finish the job tomorrow night, though. Right at the end, right when we're about to win, we'll just. . . we'll torch everything, okay?"  
  
You chuckle under your breath. When you open your mouth next, about to make some stupid remark about probably not roasting any marshmallows. . . something smacks into the side of your skull. No doubt you're unconscious before you drop. No pain. And no bright stars spinning around your head like you see in the cartoons, either. There is simply nothing for a very long time. Or maybe a very short time? You have no idea.  
  
You come to upside-down, the world at a sickening tilt, and you are staring with confused, bloodshot eyes at the back of wrinkled white dress shirt. The worst ache is swollen inside your head, and you don't even have to check to feel the thin lines of blood crusted against your neck and over one of your ears. It itches. You feel like throwing up.  
  
But all you end up doing is reaching the annoyed, foggy conclusion that you are currently strung over someone's shoulder like a fucking rag-doll. And that doesn't sit well with you. Whatsoever.  
  
"What the -?" You scowl, attempting to struggle out from beneath an arm like fifty pounds worth of solid steel. "What the fuck are you doing, asshole?" You demand. "Where are you taking me?!" You slam your bandaged fists into his back and kick your legs out, spitting and cursing as the rage washes in. "God-DAMMIT! LET ME GO!"  
  
"You make an unbearable amount of noise, whore." Eddie growls softly, not at all like the light, innocent voice he tried to sweet-talk Mark with. His grip on your waist tightens and you flinch in response, jerking your bad shoulder in a way that brings furious tears to your eyes.  
  
"You will stay away from what is mine, do you understand me?" He continues, nails biting into your skin like shards of glass through your t-shirt. "Not that it truly matters, because where you're going. . . you won't be seeing much of anyone. So I've heard, anyways." His tone is flip, entirely uncaring. "If you breathe one more word, I'll break your teeth. Would you like that?"  
  
You clench your hands, chewing on your tongue as the pain of tearing stitches eats through your palms. Okay, fine. The freak has the advantage, here. He is bigger and so much stronger than you are, so. . . what? What can you do? Grimacing, you turn your head, trying to ignore the heat and the throbbing of too much blood rushing into too many wrong places inside of your brain.  
  
If you don't straighten up soon, you are going to pass out again. And how long have you even been hanging like this?  
  
. . .what the hell has he done with Mark to even _get_ you like this? Fuck! Clearly this guy wants your friend to be his new wife -or. . . whatever. So, chances are that he's okay, right? Eddie said that as soon as he brought you to whoever the hell knows, he would be free to be with Mark.  
  
You don't know what that means. You don't _want_ to know what that means! Christ; you just have to think of something and get out of this. . .  
  
Squinting, you make out little more than blurred shadows and watery lights reflecting against the blood on the cement. A hallway? Yeah, you're in a hallway. And. . . and. . . hang on. . .  
  
Holy shit. Your eyes grow huge as you glimpse the figure creeping along behind you. No, not Mark, but. . . it is definitely another participant: a young man in shredded jeans with pale, tattooed skin, jet black hair slicked off of his face, and a bloodied finger raised to his lips when he catches you staring.  
  
He is also carrying a giant fucking butcher knife.  
  
Murky bewilderment pulses against your temple. Is he. . .  is this kid seriously going to help you? You don't. . . you don't understand. And why is he alone? Where is his partner?  
  
As Eddie rounds a corner into somewhere with slightly better lighting, the young man holds up his hand and splays his fingers. After a second, he puts one of them down. You catch on instantly, your breath locked in your chest, stunned with disbelief as he lowers a second finger, and a third. . . And then he has one left, and then he runs.  
  
There is a heavy _thud_ and grunts of pain, and you are being dropped to the ground in a sore, trembling heap as the tattooed kid launches himself at the Groom. Fucking hell; you don't know what's going on. The hall is swimming and you're scrambling backwards until you think you hit the wall.  
  
The two men struggle for a terrifying moment. You see vivid splashes of crimson over white when a third figure bursts onto the scene. And. . . no, there is no mistaking that furious expression, those deep, blackened eyes behind his glasses.  
  
Mark.  
  
Oh, God. Oh, _shit_. There are just way too many things happening, you can barely grasp the situation. The first kid managed to stab Eddie with his knife, but that asshole is still on his feet? No matter how heavily his side is leaking red, he is up and throwing punches. No, wait; how the hell did he manage to wrestle the blade away? And Mark is there, right at the goddamn heart of this vicious, screaming mess. He doesn't seem to know what to make of the other kid, but his main target is Eddie -and he doesn't even hesitate to jump at him, swinging the Mag-Lite like a man possessed.  
  
Three bodies grapple. Something _cracks_. Someone collapses. There is a final, violent spurt of blood, a pained cry, and you are swaying dizzily to your feet in horror as silence falls.  
  
Mark is panting, practically choking, sweat pouring down his face. He turns to you with wild eyes and lets the flashlight clatter to the ground in favor of wrapping you up in a near violent embrace. You hear him ask if you're okay. If Eddie hurt you. You hear. . . All you really hear is this weird buzzing in your ears as his voice fades in and out. Your arms are locked around him, but your eyes are moving beyond the motionless corpse of the Groom. . .  
  
And landing on the kid who took a fucking _knife_ to the _stomach_ to save you.  
  
"I'm. . . I'm okay." You mumble, because the answer is instinctive. "I'm okay, Mark. He didn't do anything to me." And your body seems to have developed a mind of its own, because you are firmly trying to disentangle yourself from him as he tries to keep you close.  
  
"Mark. Please." Your tongue feels too heavy for your mouth. "I have to. . . I have to. . ."  
  
You don't know what the hell you are saying, but you can hear the urgency in your broken voice. Can taste the panic like bitter metal in your throat when he pulls back and stares at you with sudden alarm.  
  
"What? What's wrong?" He quickly grips your shoulders and holds you out, his worried gaze scanning you from head to toe. "God- _dammit_. He knocked me out with something after he got you. It wasn't hard to figure out where the prick went, but it just. . . it took so damn long, and I was so afraid. . ." He draws in a long, shuddering breath.  
  
You place your hands over his and gently squeeze. There are tears in your eyes and you don't know why. You still don't know what's going on. "Mark." You whisper. "I'm okay. You found me, and I'm okay. I knew you would."  
  
Before he can say anything else, you step away from his heat, his familiar strength, and waver on unsteady legs until you are standing in front of the tattooed young man. His skin has turned almost gray, his clothes drenched with blood and sweat. Thin, inked fingers are uselessly clutched to the puncture along his left side.  
  
And then you have dropped to your knees beside him and his twisting, agonized face. "Why?" You manage through gritted teeth. _"Why_ would you do such a _stupid_ thing?"  
  
Light brown eyes flicker. A few tears slip out as he looks up at you. "Maybe. . . maybe it _was_ stupid." He wheezes. "But I did it. . . because I could. Because. . . it was the right thing to do." His hands clench, crimson slipping through.  
  
"But I'm nobody to you." You argue, feeling your own eyes water and burn. "I'm not your partner. I'm. . . I'm just some stranger. One who would have likely tried to kill you under different circumstances."  
  
The man chuckles weakly and blood spills down his bottom lip. "That doesn't matter to me. None of that. . . none of that matters, you know? We can't let these assholes take what makes us. . . what makes us, _us_. We can't let them change us into another one of their experiments. We can't. . .  we can't lose sight of what we're really fighting for in here." He pauses, his lashes fluttering, words slurring.  
  
"Surviving. . . will mean nothing. . . if we forget how to be human in the process."  
  
His simple, matter-of-fact words pierce between your lungs, deeper and sharper than any weapon ever could. Your shoulders buckle. Your entire body crumples. And you just. . . fold in on yourself as the tears begin to fall.  
  
All he does is smile, teeth stained red. "It's okay." He whispers. "You. . . you aren't that far gone, yet."  
  
"How do you know?" You demand bitterly. "How could you _possibly_ know that?"  
  
His clumsy smile widens, and he struggles for a second to move his arm out. You take his hand without thinking, his skin damp and frozen against yours. But he still holds on. God, he holds on, and you grip his fingers back so tightly, it's almost like you might be able to keep him alive by sheer force of willpower.  
  
"Because. . . you're here with me, aren't you?" He coughs quietly. "You're sitting here, crying over a dead man. And that's something."  
  
A sob catches in your throat, a vat of pressurized acid fit to burst inside your chest.  
  
"My partner was killed early. First night." He murmurs. "She was tall. . . pretty. Like you. But. . . she was violent. So damn _hateful_. She never would have survived in this place with. . . with that much poison in her heart. You might. . . might think that you've done some terrible things to get this far. . . but you aren't like her. And I'm. . . I don't regret it. Being stupid." He tries to smile again, and you can feel your ribs cutting into your heart at the sight.  
  
"I'm glad that I helped you." His breath stutters, a spasm of pain across his face. "I know. . . you'll be okay." He reassures you. "You and your partner are going to be okay."  
  
And then his eyes slip closed, and his fingers slide from yours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all, again (and again and again), for bearing with me while I ever-so-slowly churn out new parts for this story. I appreciate your wonderful comments and support so much, and happily welcome all of my new readers with the hope that none of you will be too mad when it takes me another age and a half to post something.
> 
> And I also hope everyone enjoys this chapter =) I had planned on this story being around 24-ish parts, with something of an epilogue. . . so we're almost there!


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